#once he got enough he didn’t need to do it anymore

[em1i2a3]

I Want You (Fever)

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: Grocery shopping turns into one of the most nerve wrecking nights that Bob has had in a long time (This is a continuation of “Plainclothes Man”)

Warnings: No Warnings only like…Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob? lol, this is just pure fluff with a hint of jealousy mixed in

Author's Note: Ask and you shall receive! I had this in my drafts this weekend and needed to do a little bit of fine tuning before I posted (I ended up throwing out the original idea and reworked it!). Hope y’all enjoy :) (ALSO WHAT A HIGH QUALITY GIF GOOD LORD)

Word Count: 4,465

Bob couldn’t take his eyes off you.

He’d been trying for the last twenty minutes, gripping the cart like it might keep him tethered to reality, but every aisle felt like a trap laid by fate itself. Every glance at you was a temptation, and every time he failed to resist it, it got worse.

It wasn’t just the sweatpants anymore–though God help him, those were doing their own slow damage. It was the way you moved in them. The lazy sway of fabric, the way the drawstrings danced against your thighs when you walked, the casual tug you gave them to keep the waistband in place. Like you’d forgotten they weren’t yours, even though that was far from the case.

But more than that, it was you in general. It was the quiet laugh you gave when he made a bad joke in the cereal aisle. The way you picked up the most ridiculous snack and turned to him with a grin, asking, “Okay, but what kind of monster thought making sour patch flavoured Oreos was a good idea?” just to keep him talking. The way you read your grocery list out loud like you needed him to hear it–like he was part of the journey. Like you wanted him woven into the moment.

You had no idea what you were doing to him, and that might’ve been the part that killed him the most, because you weren’t trying. You weren’t teasing him, you were just being yourself–open, warm, familiar in the kind of way that made his chest ache and his stomach twist into knots. You could’ve led him off the side of a mountain for all he cared and once he hit the ground he would’ve said “Thank you, now help me up so I can do it again.” You had so much power even though you weren’t aware of it.

”There’s your chips!” You said suddenly, and just like that, Bob’s brain and eyes were back to focusing directly on you.

You were a few steps ahead of him, half-turned toward the shelf with your hand already reaching up. There was such mundaneness to it, the way your fingers flexed slightly as you overextended your arm like you had done this a hundred times–which technically you had, though Bob just wasn’t around to see it. The oversized shirt lifted enough with the extension and his eyes–against his better judgement–flicked down.

And then he saw it, not just your skin, not just the soft slope of your waist. He saw the scar. He could see the faint, silvered edge of it–just a little shimmer near your lower back, peeking out where your shirt had roadie up and the waistband of his sweatpants dipped with movement. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to remind him of it.

You’d told him about it once offhandedly, like it didn’t mean much to you anymore–but your voice had caught halfway through the story. A mission gone sideways. A blade you didn’t see coming. You had offered to show it to him, but he said no in the most polite and sheepish way he could manage.

Not because he didn’t want to see it, but because he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you. Not in a way that would’ve crossed a line–but in a way that would’ve revealed too much. That he cared too much. That seeing something that had hurt you, marked you, and almost taken you might undo him completely.

He remembered the way your lips had twitched–half-amused and touched–when he mumbled something like “I believe you. You don’t have to prove anything to me…” And you let it go.

But now, standing behind you in the aisle lit by flickering fluorescents, with your shirt riding up and the edge of the scar showing and glistening like a silver thread stitched into your soft skin, he felt like his soul was going to leave his body.

Because it wasn’t just a scar. It was proof that you trusted him enough to offer to show him it. Proof that he knew you–in ways not everyone did. And yet…Not in the way he wanted to.

And he wondered what it would feel like to press his palm there. Not to possess, nor to claim, but just to be close to you.

When your arm finally dropped, and the shirt settled back, you put the chips into the cart as if nothing happened.

”Extra crunchy plain kettle chips…I never thought these would be so popular.” You said jokingly. He opened his mouth–but he didn’t even know what he was going to say back. Maybe it was going to be something stupid, or maybe he was just going to confess right then and there, something along the lines of “You have absolutely no idea how much I want to touch you, not just because of how perfect you look to me, but because of everything that’s made you who you are.”

But the words never even formed in his throat.

”Y/N?” Your name rang out behind you, clear and surprised and full of recognition. It was a gravelly and deep voice, a man's voice. Bob could feel his stomach fall through him.

You turned first, and your smile lit up like a struck match.

”Oh my god! Connor?” The excitement in your voice almost killed him, and immediately he could feel himself grow hot with the idea of what he was about to witness.

He watched as the man appeared from the far end of the aisle–tall, sharp-edged with a little scar over his eye, clean-shaven and still somehow scruffy in that confident, ex-special ops kind of way.

Connor was already walking toward you with the familiarity of someone who used to share early morning missions and late-night runs with you. His voice was warm, loud, and confident, he was unmistakably sure of himself.

”I thought that was you!” Connor grinned, coming to a stop just in front of you, “I almost didn’t recognize you without the tactical vest and blood on your face.” You gave him a short laugh and glanced down at yourself.

”I clean up well enough, right?” You motioned to the clothes that you were wearing.

”More than well enough,” Connor replied, tone light but lingering, his eyes sweeping over you quickly before adding, “I always said you were the best-looking one in the unit.” You rolled your eyes, but the smile you gave him was real–warmed by shared history, by something friendly and effortless. Bob felt himself wanting to interject, but all he could do was stand there, and watch, like he was just part of the scenery now.

”You only said that because you didn’t want me breaking your nose during drills.” Connor smirked.

”Hey, you were always close to doing it though, you always had that elbow twitch. I remember.” And you laughed again–open, easy, head tilted back just enough that Bob saw the line of your throat, saw the way you leaned in just a little when you nudged Connor’s arm.

You weren’t really flirting, it wasn’t anything heavy and meaningful, it was like two friends catching up on lost time. But Bob felt it like a shard of glass under his ribs. He didn’t know what hurt more though–the way you smiled at Connor, or the way that Connor had so many experiences with you, and so many stories. Bob only had a few months, a few soft mornings, and one mission where he was the person they were up against. It was hard to imagine that you and him could ever be that close, and all he could feel was his heart sinking lower and lower.

Connor slung his hands into his pockets, “So, what’ve you been up to? I figured you were halfway across the world still setting fire to buildings and pissing off diplomates.” You shook your head, brushing your knuckles across your forehead.

”Took a break from international chaos. I’m with The New Avengers now. It’s a stateside thing, mostly.” Connor raised a brow.

”The New Avengers, huh? Never figured you to be the reformation type.” He commented, continuing to look at you.

”Yeah well…” You shrugged, “Figured I’d try being a little less feral, for now at least.” He laughed at that, then glanced over your shoulder for the first time since the conversation started–like he just remembered you weren’t alone.

”And who’s this?” He motioned with his chin, “Your backup?” You turned slightly to Bob, tilting your head with a small smile, waving him over like you were finally letting him in on a secret. The look in your eyes was unreadable as he approached slowly, and it made him nervous.

“This is Bob. Bob Reynolds.” You said. There were no titles, no explanations, no qualifiers, just his name–spoken like it was enough. Bob offered his hand to Connor automatically, even though his mind was already spiraling from the lack of any defining words.

The handshake was firm, yet casual.

“Bob Reynolds,” Connor repeated with a smirk, giving him a once-over, before glancing over at you, “Didn’t peg you to be someone who dates within the team.” Bob froze. The words landed like a live wire straight to his chest. His vision didn’t blur–but it tunneled. Everything around him narrowed, and went strangely quiet, like the store had vacuumed the sound right out of the air.

And then–you smiled. Not with embarrassment, or hesitation, but with this soft, relaxed kind of warmth–like the mixup didn’t bother you at all. You didn’t correct him either. You didn’t say no, that’s not what we are. You didn’t say we’re just teammates. You said nothing at all, and neither did Bob.

Because in that moment, something inside him had short-circuited, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Something about your silence felt good to him. Terrifying, yes. But…Good. Dangerous, and hopeful as well. Like maybe–just maybe– you liked the idea that people thought he was yours.

Connor chuckled, and nudged your shoulder, “Didn’t think you’d go for the soft ones, but I get it. Balances you out.” He commented, which made Bob turn a bit red in embarrassment and you shrugged.

”He grows on you.” Bob nearly forgot how to stand upright, because you weren’t joking. There was affection under those words, and just by hearing you say them, it was like his blood had turned electric beneath his skin. Like every inch had been tuned too tight, and he was about to snap in half from the tension. From the possibility.

Connor clapped him lightly on the arm, “Well, hey–good luck surviving her. She’s the reason I still have shoulder pain in cold weather.”

“I’m very proud of that,” You replied breezily, already reaching for another snack on the shelf like your words, or lack thereof, just hadn’t rearranged his. Connor gave you a small wink and started to walk off.

”Always good seeing you Y/N, you two have fun playing house.” And then he was gone, just like that. Bob stayed frozen where he stood, realizing he said absolutely nothing during the conversation. You turned back to him with a small smile, tossing a bag of popcorn into the cart.

”We still need to go to the dessert section for Walker's cinnamon rolls.” You said, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

——————-

Once you were done shopping, Bob loaded the trunk with all the bags and returned the shopping cart to the store, sliding into the passenger seat in complete silence.

The engine hummed low beneath the weight of all that was unspoken, and the grocery bags rustled faintly as you rolled down the window to let some air into the stuffy car. You pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, glancing once in Bob’s direction.

He hadn’t said a word since Connor left, and he looked absolutely dazed.

His hands were folded in his lap, not clenched–but fidgeting. His fingers were tangled loosely together, thumbs moving over one another in slow rhythmic circles. It was the kind of motion that only meant one thing when it came from Bob: he was nervous, really nervous. Tied-up-in-knots and about to implode kind of nervous.

You flicked your turn signal and merged into the next lane.

”Are you okay?” You asked gently. Bob didn’t answer right away, his eyes just stayed locked on the road ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing it–you could tell. His mind was miles away. Still stuck in aisle seven, maybe.

You hit a stoplight.

The soft red glow filtered into the car through the windshield, casting a faint warmth across your features. It slid like watercolor across your cheekbones, deepened the shadows around your mouth, and softened the bridge of your nose. It made you look celestial, like something that was too alive to exist in a place as mundane as this.

Bob turned his head to look at you–and once he did, he couldn’t look away.

The red glow painted you like a portrait Bob didn’t think he deserved to see. Something about it made everything more unreal. More dangerous. He didn’t even realize how long he’d been staring–until you caught him doing it.

You blinked and tilted your head, eyes narrowing with something like concern.

”Bob,” You said softly, “What’s going on?” His mouth parted, but nothing came out.

And then the light turned green.

You let the car roll forward slowly, but then you took the next turn–off the main road, down a quiet street lined with trees that filtered the dying daylight like gold dust. You pulled the car over, your tires crunching softly against gravel. And then you put it in park and killed the engine.

The silence fell like a held breath, as a gust of wind blew the cool spring air into the car. It smelled like moss, with a hint of dew, like it was going to rain, even though the sky was showing to be clear.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and turned toward him, shifting so you could see him fully. His profile was tight–tense in a way you rarely saw. He was breathing, but too shallow. His jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.

“Okay,” You said, voice calm but firm. “You haven’t said more than three words since we saw Connor. You’re fidgeting so much your thumbs are gonna rub raw. And you keep looking at me like you’ve got something to say…”Bob blinked, once and swallowed the lump in his throat, as a sheen of sweat began to form on the back of his neck.

Still nothing.

“So,” You continued, leaning a little closer to him, your tone gentler now. “Tell me. What happened?” Bob’s mouth opened like he was about to finally speak—but the words caught somewhere in his throat and came out as a half-breath instead.

You watched him closely, waiting.

“I… n-nothing happened,” he stammered, eyes flicking toward the windshield like it might offer him an escape. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I mean it’s not—it’s not not fine—but it’s not, like… bad. It’s just…”

He trailed off, his voice shrinking with every word until it was barely audible.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked at him. Really looked.

Then you slowly shifted closer.

Your thigh brushed his. Barely. Just enough that the contact registered like a spark. And when you leaned in, the warmth of you carried with it the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg–the smell of fall during spring, and Bob’s lungs forgot how to behave.

“Is it me?” you asked softly.

His eyes shot to you like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“I—no,” he blurted, too fast, too flustered. “No! I mean. Not like—It’s not bad. It’s just, um…”

He trailed off again. His shoulders sank.

You tilted your head. “Bob.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

“…I don’t know how to be around you right now.”

That made you pause. Your gaze softened, but you didn’t pull back. If anything, you inched even closer–your arm brushing his this time.

“Why?” you asked. Your voice wasn’t teasing. Just curious. Barely above a whisper.

He opened his eyes and looked at you again–and this time, there was no hiding in the silence.

“Because Connor thought we were together,” he said, breathless. “And you didn’t c-correct him at–at all. And I’ve been trying not to hope for too much. Trying no–not to want that so much. But the second he said it, and you didn’t say anything–I haven’t been able to think straight since.”

You stared at him for a second, the air between you charged like a live wire.

And then…

“Did you ever think,” You said slowly, “That maybe I didn’t want to correct him because I liked what I heard?”

That made him blink–hard. His breath hitched audibly.

His mouth parted, but no words came. His hand–still folded in his lap–tightened slightly, like he was holding onto something that might float away.

You watched his lips part and close again, watched his chest rise and fall with uneven breaths, and you could feel the space between you contracting, the tension building like something was about to snap.

“Bob,” You said, softer now, “Am I the one that’s making you nervous?”

He nodded–tiny. Almost imperceptible. Then managed a whisper:

“A-Always.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Then you reached up, slow and steady, and brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He flinched–not from discomfort, but from shock, closing his eyes at the sensation of your touch tracing along his stubble. Like he didn’t know how to receive that kind of closeness. Like he hadn’t dared imagine it outside of his dreams.

Your voice stayed low. Intimate.

“You don’t have to be nervous with me,” You said. “Not if you want the same thing I do.”

He could feel his heart seizing in his chest, his mouth going dry, lips parting again. “A-And what do you w-want?”

You smiled–just barely, just enough for him to see the truth in it. Something quiet and unguarded. Something only for him.

Then you leaned in.

And he felt it first in the air—how your breath brushed across his lips before your mouth ever touched his. Soft and warm, like the stir of wind before a storm. It made every muscle in his body go tight with anticipation. The space between you was shrinking by the second, his senses narrowing to the way you looked at him–like you already knew what this would do to him.

”You…That’s what I want.” You whispered. Bob swallowed hard. His pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. His hand twitched in his lap like it wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

And then–

You kissed him.

Your lips found his like they’d been there before in a hundred different dreams. They were soft, impossibly soft, and he swore time folded in on itself. It wasn’t rushed, or messy, or careless–it was a moment made of weightless things. Breath and longing. The quiet hum of the earth under your feet and the echo of a hope that had waited far too long to bloom.

Bob didn’t kiss back at first–not out of hesitation, but out of sheer disbelief. His breath hitched like he was afraid he’d ruin it by moving. But then your hand slid into his hair, your thumb grazing the curve of his jaw again, and something in him unspooled completely.

He kissed you back like he’d been drowning for years and only just now found air. Gentle at first–uncertain–but then a little more desperate. His fingers found your thigh where your legs were still touching, squeezing it gently, anchoring him to the here and now. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss by a fraction, like he was afraid you might vanish if he didn’t get closer. Like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth, the warmth of your breath, the soft sigh you let out when his lips parted just barely against yours.

And for a moment, there was nothing else. No car. No road. No Connor. Just the two of you suspended in something delicate and golden and sacred.

He was still breathing like he’d just run ten miles when you pulled back. He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes shutting tight like he was trying to hold onto the feeling, preserving it in his chest like a light in a jaw. The windows were fogging at the corners now, despite them being open, and the air between you had turned warm and close, while every shared breath was a little shallower, a little hungrier than the one before.

You tilted your head just slightly, brushing the tip of your nose along his cheek, and he shuddered.

“Jesus Y/N…” He whispered, “I-I think I’m gonna pass out.” You smiled gently against his skin, letting your lips brush over the corner of his mouth.

“You’re doing better than you think.” You whispered, as your hand slid down from his jaw to rest against his chest, right over his heart–feeling it pounding like a war drum. He looked at you then, dazed and wide-eyed, mouth still pink and parted, and when you shifted your weight toward him, his breath caught.

“Can I…?” you asked, your voice softer than ever, your gaze flicking downward–toward his lap.

He nodded before you could finish the question. Like it wasn’t even a decision, just a reflex. “Y-yeah. Yeah. Please.”

You climbed over the center console slowly, carefully, and Bob’s hands went to your hips instinctively, steadying you like you might disappear mid-motion. The second you settled on top of him, straddling his lap, he tensed beneath you–shoulders rigid, breath shallow–but his grip never wavered.

“Okay?” you asked again, brushing your thumbs over the fabric of his shirt.

He nodded again, voice trembling. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

You smiled, sliding yours over his. “You’re already doing fine.”

And then you kissed him again.

This time, it wasn’t soft.

It was warm and slow, sure–but there was something boiling under the surface now. A spark that had caught flame. You kissed him like you’d been waiting for this, starving for it, and Bob melted into it like he didn’t know how not to. His hands tightened at your hips, not possessive, just desperate for anchoring. For something real.

He moaned against your mouth when your fingers slid into his hair again, tugging just lightly. It was a sound you felt before you heard it–a low vibration in your chest where your bodies were brushing, where your thighs pressed against his hips.

You rolled your hips once, slowly, more a shift than a grind–and Bob gasped into your kiss.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, voice trembling, forehead falling to your shoulder for a second as he tried to collect himself.

“You okay?” You murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

He nodded, his voice shaky and stunned. “Y-You’re gonna kill me.”

You kissed him again before he could spiral further, and this time his hands slid under your shirt, trailing up your back, like he wanted to feel every inch of you he was allowed. The smooth skin was vast, and all he realized was just how soft you truly were as he pulled your body against his. His mouth opened beneath yours, and you deepened the kiss slowly, tilting your head, tasting the warmth of him, the desperation he was too shy to say out loud.

And then his hips shifted under you, unintentionally–and the friction made you both gasp. His fingers flexed against your back, clinging. Needy. His breath came faster, rougher, and he whined into your mouth when your hips shifted again, intentionally this time–grinding against him with slow, aching friction.

“Y-Y/N,” he whimpered, voice cracking apart, and your hand found the back of his neck, holding him close as you kissed him harder. The car felt too small now, too warm, too full of air that wasn’t moving–but neither of you could stop. Not yet.

His mouth opened wider, tongue brushing yours hesitantly–like he was asking permission even now, like he didn’t know if you still wanted this. But the second you deepened it, the second your lips parted and your tongue met his with a soft, slick slide–he lost whatever fragile control he had left.

He moaned–quiet and broken–and then his hips lifted just barely into yours. You both froze at the pressure, the friction.

His fingers dug into your hips. “I-I can’t–” He breathed, forehead falling back to yours. “I’m gonna–if we keep–I can’t think.”

“Hey,” You whispered, brushing your nose against his, breathless, lips still ghosting his, “It’s okay. We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” He blurted, and it sounded like a confession, “I just–I need to. I want to…So so bad, it’s just–god, I want to do it right.”

You smiled, fingers slipping up to his flushed cheeks, holding him there–trembling, dazed, burning beneath you.

“You are doing it right, Bob,” You murmured, kissing him once more—slower this time, gentler, reverent. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

His arms slid around your waist, holding you like he couldn’t let go, like if he did the whole thing might vanish like a fever dream. His breath was hot against your collarbone now, lips resting against your skin, and he nodded, finally beginning to breathe again.

“I-I just want to be close to–to you,” He whispered. “Even if it’s just like this. Even if we don’t–y’know. Yet.”

You leaned your head against his, your hand stroking the back of his neck slowly, grounding him.

“Then let’s just stay like this,” You said softly. “You and me.”

He nodded again, arms tightening around you.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “You and me.”

The windows stayed fogged, your breaths remained shallow, your lips kiss-swollen and raw. But you didn’t move.

And in the quiet heat of that parked car, it felt like something had finally started. Something that didn’t need words.

[geminiwritten]

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling

warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together. 

Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish. 

You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick. 

It was meant to be. 

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease. 

And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch. 

A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand. 

“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms. 

Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.” 

She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open. 

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.” 

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

END.

[dramagodesss]

twenty one : it hurts to say goodbye

playin' the players

you’re everywhere and nowhere at once.

every new party, every rooftop, every photo someone tags you in — they’re all starting to blur together. you keep the lipstick sharp, the drinks full, the smile just wide enough to fool the right people.

you let cleo drag you to another house show downtown. kie insists you dance. sarah throws her arm around you like a shield. you laugh, you drink, you vanish in the bathroom for a little too long.

you answer texts with half a heart. you leave people on read. you keep your notifications silent.

because it’s easier this way.

no one mentions the bet out loud anymore. no one talks about the rooftop blow-up. and that silence is louder than anything.

you catch yourself zoning out sometimes — like tonight, sitting on a stranger’s balcony with a red solo cup pressed to your lips and someone talking about camera angles beside you. you don’t even remember how you got here.

the sky’s dark. your fingers are cold. and the only thing you feel is tired. not physically. just… tired of it all.

of pretending you’re fine. of pretending it didn’t hurt. of pretending you didn’t care about both of them.

because you did. you do.

you check your phone again. nothing new.

and even though you told yourself you wanted space — that you didn’t want to talk to jj or rafe or anyone — it still stings.

for a second, you almost text him. jj,

i miss you jj,

i’m not okayjj—

or him.

rafe,

i need you rafe,

please come get me rafe—

but you don’t.

you just tip back your drink, lean your head against the cool brick wall behind you, and close your eyes.

and this time, you don’t dream of your brother. you just dream of leaving.

november 23rd

 wes’s birthday.

he would’ve been fifteen today. the same age you were when he died in your arms.

fifteen.

you whisper it out loud, like saying the number might somehow slow the ache in your ribs. it doesn’t.

you don’t tell anyone what day it is. not sarah. not kie. not even cleo, who’s always been the best at noticing when you’re unraveling.

you wake up late, stay curled under the covers, and pretend the sunlight isn’t bleeding in through the curtains. you pretend the world isn’t still spinning.

but your mind won’t shut up.

flash. the car. the metal. your hands shaking too much to call 911 the first time. you still remember the exact ringtone when you finally did. your voice high, breaking, telling them please please hurry.

flash. his blood on your hoodie. his fingers gripping yours. him looking at you like he already knew. like he was trying to make you feel better.

“it’s okay, sissy. i love you.”

you remember how his breath rattled. how the words barely made it out. how you sobbed “no no no no no” over and over and held his face like that could keep him here.

he was twelve. twelve and kind and funny and stubborn and obsessed with superhero movies and used to tell people you were his best friend.

you were fifteen and too slow. too scared. you’ve never forgiven yourself for that.

you don’t cry right away today. you just sit there, wrapped in your blanket, phone in your lap, scrolling through pictures you don’t let anyone see.

one of him in a beanie too big for his head. one where he’s holding your hand at the beach. a video of him singing off-key in the car, making you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe.

and then you do cry. quiet at first. then messier. grief doesn’t knock anymore — it just breaks the door down.

and still, you don’t text anyone. you don’t go out. you don’t even move for hours.

because today isn’t about anyone else.

today is wes’s.

and you just miss your little brother. you miss him so goddamn much you think it might kill you.

but you don’t plan it.

you just wake up, throw on the first hoodie that still smells like home, and walk until your legs hurt.

the tattoo shop’s half-empty. the guy at the counter doesn’t ask many questions, which you’re grateful for. you hand him the lyrics on a crumpled piece of paper.

“time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.”

it was wes’s favorite. he used to dance like an idiot in the kitchen to it. used to belt the chorus like it was written for him. used to say “this is what i’m gonna sing when i’m famous.”

he never got the chance.

so now it’s on your skin — permanent, etched low across your back where only the people you choose will ever see it.

you don’t flinch when the needle starts. the pain feels good, almost. real. anchoring.

when it’s done, you pay in cash and thank the artist with a hoarse voice, throat tight from holding everything in.

by the time you get back to the apartment, golden hour is stretching lazy over the buildings. your roommates are gone. the world feels hushed.

you go straight to the rooftop.

hood still up.

joint between your fingers.

you light it without thinking, breathing deep. the air’s sharp. the sky’s turning pink. you feel… numb. or maybe just quiet.your phone buzzes once in your pocket. you ignore it. then again. again.

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[fratboykate]

Ok, but I really need to see Kate in rehab now. Also Yelena not willing to say ex-wife but Kate's like "no, we broke up. I fucked this."

And maybe it's me needing some fluff, but just. Kate and Yelena FaceTime. Little talks. The ones where they ignore the shit and it feels like it did before, but then they get quiet because they remember it's not before. Its now and it's kind of fucked.

Can we get Yelena visiting Kate in treatment? Kate reconnecting with her kids? Kate accepting accountability? There’s so much angst to explore! It’s like Christmas but if Christmas made me cry.

Kinda a combo of parts of these two. Not fully fulfilling either but...I think it'll scratch y'alls itch. Here's 7.8k of angsty goodness.

--

Thirty days.

That’s how long it’s been since Kate overdosed on their bathroom floor, shaking and blue and almost gone. Thirty days since they called 911. Thirty days since her world transformed in an instant.

The doctors said no visitors. At least three weeks. Standard protocol, apparently. Full detox. Full isolation. No calls. No visits. No distractions. Yelena had argued, but not much. She knew better than anyone how Kate could manipulate a room. How she could talk her way out of anything, convince even the sharpest doctor she was fine. Better. Cured.

Three weeks. Clean break. Let the treatment take root. That’s what they said. Yelena knows it was the right call. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.

//

Yelena didn’t realize how much Kate handled until she wasn’t there. Didn’t realize how overloaded Kate must have felt. Because that’s how she feels now. Drop-offs, sports, dance classes, dentist appointments, remembering that Alexia needs a poster board or Maks has a costume party. With the kids in her care full-time now, Yelena’s brain runs like a computer with too many tabs open. None of them organized. All of them on fire.

Sonny’s teething again. Maks wet the bed three times this week. Alexia…Yelena doesn’t even know. The girl’s gone quiet. Too still. She doesn’t ask about Kate much anymore. Doesn’t cry. Just watches. That’s worse.

The silence. The observing. The waiting. Yelena can feel the weight of Alexia’s eyes on her when she’s folding laundry, when she forgets to pack a snack, when she doesn’t laugh at Maks’ joke fast enough. She can feel it like a measuring stick being held up to her forehead.

Are you enough? Are you enough without her?

//

Alexei has all but moved in. At first it was just to help for the week. Then the week stretched. Then it became routine. He makes breakfast every morning like he’s been doing it forever. Walks Sonny up and down the block when she won’t stop crying. Tells Maks stories about when Yelena was little, always ending with, "And that is why your Mama is like this."

Melina stops by every day with printouts. Meal plans. Color-coded calendars. Suggestions for managing the emotional trauma of children post-crisis. She talks in bullet points. But she has never, not once, told Yelena or Alexei how she feels about any of this.

Alexei and Melina are helping. They are. But it’s still also only Yelena now. She’s the one who wakes up every night to check if the kids are breathing. The one who takes the calls from the school. The one who remembers which brand of pull-ups doesn’t give Sonny a rash. The one who has to answer the same question, over and over again:

"When is Mommy coming home?"

She tells them: Soon. When she’s better. When the doctors say she’s ready.

Maks asks if they’ll get to live together again after. Alexia doesn’t say anything.

//

Yelena goes to group once a week. Nar-Anon. The one for the families and friends of addicts. Took her three tries to actually walk inside. Sat in the car the first time, engine running, hand on the door. Couldn’t move. The second time she got as far as the hallway before a woman smiled at her too kindly and she bolted. The third time, she sat down. Didn’t talk. Just listened.

Heard stories that sounded too familiar. Stories about addicts who lied and stole and relapsed and swore they wouldn’t. About kids who grew up with half-parents. About the helplessness. The rage.

She cried halfway through her second real meeting.

Now she’s made it a point to put in on her calendar. She promises herself she’ll go every Thursday night. So far, she’s stuck with it.

She sits in the third row, near the back. Not sharing. Not uttering Kate’s name. Not even her own. She simply shows up and listens. And, for now, that’s enough.

//

Yelena misses work deadlines constantly now. The lab understands. Mostly. Her name still carries weight. But the remorse gnaws at her. She was never late before. Never missed a review or stood someone up for a meeting or forgot to follow through.

Now she sets alarms and forgets what they’re even for. Now she pours coffee and drinks it cold. Now she folds laundry at midnight because it’s the only time the house is quiet.

Alexia stays up too late. Pretends to read. Yelena doesn’t push her. Maks has become more clingy, crawling into her bed in the middle of the night and whispering that he had another bad dream. Sonny hangs on to Alexei like a barnacle. Yelena calls him Dad. So now Sonny calls him Dad. Like it’s always been that way.

Yelena loves them so much it hurts. Loves them beyond measure…yet nevertheless, she sometimes wants to scream. But there’s no room to fall apart. No corner of the day where she can shatter. No one to pass the baton to. Kate isn’t there. Kate isn’t texting to say she’s running late but will pick up dinner. Kate isn’t leaving her notes in the margin of grocery lists or fixing the playlist in the car.

Kate isn’t there. But Yelena is.

//

The house is clean now. Too clean. Alexei’s doing. He can’t sit still. He folds every blanket. Organizes every drawer. Makes the beds with hospital corners. Something about control, Yelena thinks.

Maks spilled juice on the carpet and cried like it was the end of the world. Yelena knelt down, cleaned it, held him, told him it was just juice. Told him it’s something you can wipe away.

Yelena understands their tantrums have nothing to do with juice spills or teething or dinner choices. So she tries to be extra patient with them. That’s the best she can do lately.

//

Kate’s been in rehab for fourteen days. No visitors. No phone calls. The center sends progress updates through a family liaison. Yelena reads every one three times.

"Katherine has been compliant with all treatment protocols."

"Katherine is responding well to group therapy."

"Katherine has rejected additional individual counseling."

“Katherine isn’t being entirely honest.”

The reports are clinical. Distant. Yelena reads them like a lifeline. Every sentence a heartbeat. Every paragraph a breadcrumb that means maybe…maybe…Kate is coming back to the kids.

Yelena doesn’t know if she’s coming back to her. That’s…not something she lets herself think about. Not yet.

//

Yelena talks to Dr. O’Grady twice a week. Once for solo therapy, once with the kids. It was Dr. O’Grady who suggested the group meetings, the Thursday ones Yelena now attends like a quiet form of penance.

When it’s just the two of them, the sessions are usually quiet. Dr. O’Grady is maddeningly good at silence. She doesn’t push. She just…waits. Long enough that Yelena starts talking just to fill the air.

“What are you most afraid of?” She asked last session.

Yelena stared at the carpet for what felt like minutes. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her mouth opened once, then closed.

Then finally, she said, “That Kate doesn’t want to come back.”

A beat.

“Not to the kids.”

A longer one.

“To me.”

//

On Day Twenty-One, the rehab center calls while Yelena is at work. Her stomach drops.

Yelena hesitates, then stands and steps just outside the door, answering with a tight, “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Amy from Reed Recovery. Is this Ms. Belova?”

“…Yeah.”

“We’re calling to confirm visitation availability for Saturday. Ms. Bishop blackout period is over. You’re cleared to schedule a visit and Kate has listed you as her primary contact. Would you like to schedule a time?”

Yelena’s every muscle goes stiff. For a second, she can’t breathe.

“Yes. Yes, I…sorry. Yes. I’d like to come.”

“Great. Would 10AM work?”
 “Yes. Definitely. Yes.”

“You’re confirmed for 10AM. We recommend arriving fifteen minutes early and bringing a form of ID. We’ll go over visitor rules and expectations when you arrive.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Yelena hangs up before she can hear the rest.

Instead of going back to the meeting she just…leaves. She sits in her car for forty-five minutes. Breath ragged. Phone still in her hand. She closes her eyes.

A month ago, she almost became a single parent permanently. A month ago, she shoved her mouth against Kate’s and begged her to stay. Now she has to see her again. Hear her voice.

Yelena doesn’t know if she wants to cry or scream or run. But she’ll do it. Because this is her life now. Her mess. Her kids. Her family. Her responsibility. And maybe…just maybe…her future, too.

//

The room smells like burnt coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. The chairs are all the same. Metal, beige, barely cushioned. Uncomfortable by design. There’s cheap carpeting underfoot, a table in the corner with cookies no one touches, and a corkboard on the wall covered in photos and typed-out success stories. It’s the kind of space meant to disappear into itself. Neutral. A blank enough canvas to hold grief, rage, hope, regret. Whatever you bring in, it’ll carry. That’s the idea, anyway.

Yelena sits in her usual spot, third row from the back. The ceiling tile above her is still stained. She’s counted it twice. It doesn’t change.

The room’s half full. Some familiar faces. Some new. Most of them worn in the way pain wears people down. Quiet around the edges, as if loosening even a little might make them fall apart completely. She’s listened to them speak for three weeks now. Sat through the stories. Mothers crying over sons, daughters raging about brothers, husbands whispering about wives they barely recognize.

She’s understood all of it. Just never knew what the fuck to say. Until tonight. Maybe it’s the phone call. Maybe it’s the silence that followed. Either way, something itches under her skin. Restless. Inevitable.

Because tonight, for the first time in twenty-one days, Yelena has a date and time. She’s going to see Kate. Saturday. Ten AM.

After three weeks of silence, no calls, no updates beyond the sterile progress notes from the facility. After twenty-one days of fielding tantrums and bedtime meltdowns and teething and quiet questions from Maks and sideways glances from Alexia. After all that…she finally gets to see the woman she used to call her wife.

She hasn’t told the kids yet. Not until she sees for herself.

She picks at her thumbnail. Around her, the meeting begins. Someone checks in. Someone else reads from a pamphlet. The man across the circle sips his coffee like it’s been keeping him alive for decades. A tired laugh breaks out when someone makes a dry joke. Then the room settles again. A lull.

The facilitator scans the circle.

“Who wants to go next?”

Silence. A chair squeaks. Then, before she knows why she’s doing it, Yelena hears herself speak.

“I’ll go.”

Heads turn. Some surprised. Some quietly supportive. She doesn’t move to the center. Just stays where she is, hands in the pockets of her jacket, voice low but steady.

“I’m Yelena. Been coming here for three weeks.” She exhales. Her fingers curl tighter in her pockets. “First because I didn’t know what else to do. Now because I still don’t. I haven’t spoken yet. Didn’t think I would.” She glances around. The faces are kind. Or at least trying to be. “My wife…ex-wife…we were in the middle of finalizing our divorce when she overdosed.”

That word lands. She sees a few eyes shift. Nods. A soft inhale.

“It wasn’t…some perfect fairy tale. It was a fucking mess. I’m not quite sure what we are now…Sorry. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I don’t know what I want to say….”

She stops. Regathers.

“Three weeks ago, she overdosed. Cocaine laced with fentanyl. Her heart stopped. She seized. Then had a heart attack. The doctors told me if I’d gotten there a few minutes later, she’d be dead.”

A murmur. One man closes his eyes.

“Our kids were home. I found her on the bathroom floor. Blue. Not moving.”

The words don’t come dramatic. They come plain. Undecorated.

“I did CPR until the medics got there. I didn’t think it would work. I didn’t think…I thought I was going to have to tell our kids that their mom was dead.”

Someone across the circle nods. Quietly. Like they’ve been there. Maybe they have.

“She made it. Barely. She was in the hospital for a week. Got released. Got into a program. They sent her upstate. No contact for three weeks. Today, I got the call. I’m allowed to visit. Saturday. Ten AM.”

Yelena shifts. Scratches at the seam of her jeans.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to her. I don’t know if I’m supposed to scream or cry or hug her or just…sit there. I’m mad. I’m scared. And I’m so fucking tired.”

Her throat tightens. She pushes past it.

“I’ve had the kids full-time since it happened. Three kids. One in diapers. One who is desperate to understand everything but is too little to truly grasp anything. One who’s trying to carry the weight of all of it without saying a single word. I look at them and think, ‘They have no idea how close they came to losing her.’ And they shouldn’t. They shouldn’t have to carry that. But I do.”

The facilitator offers a gentle nod. Silent encouragement. Yelena breathes deep. Keeps going.

“I came here because I thought I needed to vent. Or hear that I was right to be mad. That I wasn’t crazy for feeling like this. But I don’t want her punished. I just…want her better. I want her to want to be better.” A pause. “She’s a good mom. She loves them. That’s not the problem. The problem is that she’s sick. And now I’m stuck in this place where I’m furious and terrified and still trying to be kind. Trying to be generous. And I don’t know how the fuck to do it all at once.”

There’s a hush now. That real silence. When people aren’t just listening, but hearing you.

“I don’t know who she is to me anymore. She’s been every version of something. Girlfriend. Partner. Wife. Roommate. Ex. Co-parent. Estranged. The woman who almost died in our shared bathroom.” Her voice lowers. “I almost had to call her my dead wife.”

Yelena lets that sit.

“I keep thinking that should be enough. That she survived. That I didn’t have to make those calls. That should be enough, right?” She shakes her head. “But it’s not. It’s not even close.”

Silence again.

“Sorry. I didn’t plan to speak tonight. But it felt worse not to.” She exhales. Her shoulders slump. The room exhales with her. “Anyway. That’s me.”

Yelena sits back down. Breathing shaky. Heart louder than it should be.

Someone murmurs, “Thank you.”

Another: “Glad you’re here.”

And then the circle moves again. Someone else stands. Someone else starts. And Yelena sits back and listens.

Even if the words don’t fix anything, they were real. And that’s a start.

The rest of the session passes in a blur. Someone cries. Someone else hands them tissues. A man across the room talks about how his daughter stole from him to get high. Yelena barely hears a word.

//

When the meeting ends, Yelena doesn’t bolt like usual.

She lingers. Watching people trickle out. Coats shrugged on. Murmured goodbyes. Chairs screeching as they’re pushed back into straight lines.

She drifts toward the cookie table, eyeing a lonely oatmeal raisin that looks like it’s been there since the Carter administration. She debates it. Even knowing it’ll taste like chalk and drywall, she takes a bite. Instantly regrets it.

Then a voice behind her: warm, low, just amused enough.

“You speak like you’re used to being listened to.”

Yelena turns.

The woman behind her is tall. Late thirties, maybe. Warm brown skin. Dark curls pulled into a half-knot that manages to look effortless and deliberate at the same time. Her black jeans are worn, her cardigan oversized, and her boots look like they’ve stomped over lesser men. There’s navy polish chipping off her nails and a little mischief tucked into the corners of her mouth. Her eyes are darker still. Serious. Curious. Magnetic.

“Most people don’t,” the woman adds.

Yelena lets out a soft snort.

“Used to yelling, maybe. Listening’s harder.”

That earns a smile.

“Still. I’m glad you spoke.”

“Thanks.” Yelena nods, cautious.

“I’m Ava.” She offers a hand.

“Yelena.”

“I know.” Ava grins. “You’ve been sitting in that same chair for three weeks.”

Yelena quirks a brow.

“You keeping tabs?”

“I’m observant.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

Ava shrugs.

“Something like that…Talking’s harder than it looks, huh?”

“At least I didn’t cry.”

“No shame if you had. I ugly-cried my first five meetings. Full snot. Olympic-level.”

Yelena huffs a laugh. It catches her by surprise. “Impressive.”

“I own it now. Snot and all.”

They fall quiet for a beat. Then Ava nudges the table.

“Okay, be real with me. Are these cookies as bad as they look?”

“Worse.”

“Thought so.”

Ava drops her hands into her pockets.

“You wanna walk? There's a decent bodega two blocks over with actual cookies. Fresh. Usually.”

Yelena hesitates. Ava notices.

“Not trying to be weird. Just…you looked like you needed to talk a little more. Or not talk. I’m good with either.”

Yelena glances at the time. 9:13. Alexei’s at home with the kids. They’re probably already asleep. And she…doesn’t want to go back. Not just yet. The thought of going home, of crawling back into silence, tastes worse than the cookie she didn’t eat.

“Alright. Lead the way.”

//

Outside, the air is brisk. The streets are slick with earlier rain, neon puddles blooming under streetlights. They walk side by side, Ava with that relaxed stride of someone who’s been through shit and lived to laugh about it.

“Saturday, huh?” Ava says.

“Yeah.” Yelena nods.

“Longest you’ve ever gone without seeing her?”

Yelena nods again.

“Never in twenty years. Even during the worst of it, we were always circling each other. Drop-offs. Pickups. Something.”

“She know you’re coming?”

“I assume so…I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel. Angry. Relieved. Panicked. It’s like everything’s fighting for space in my head. I can’t decide if I want to hug her or punch her in the throat.”

“That tracks.”

“You always this good at reading people?”

“I’m a school counselor. I spend most of my day navigating hormonal chaos and unspoken trauma. You get good at spotting what’s really going on under the surface. And you get especially proficient at sorting the quiet from the dangerous.”

“And what am I?”

Ava surveys her.

“Neither. You’re something else entirely.”

Yelena doesn’t know what to do with that. So she doesn’t.

The words settle between them like a match waiting to be struck.

//

The bodega hums with fluorescent light and the low buzz of a radio behind the counter. The cookie shelf is still stocked.

“These…” Ava points. “These are the good ones.”

Yelena grabs two. Pays in crumpled bills. They step back out into the night, warmth of the store giving way to chill.

Ava breaks off a piece and hands it to her. Yelena takes it. Their fingers brush. Electric current hums under it.

“What do you think Saturday will be?”

Yelena chews. Swallows.

“I don’t know. And that makes it worse.”

“Nothing bad with a bit of mystery. Sometimes it gets you to the other side.”

“I’m not trying to get to the other side of anything. I just want her to be okay.”

“And you?” Yelena remains silent. “What about you?” Ava looks over. “Do you want you to be okay?”

Yelena stares at the sidewalk. At a puddle. At her shoes. Anything else.

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Maybe start.”

There’s no judgment in Ava’s voice. Just a kind of understanding that sits quietly in the chest.

They walk more. It’s quiet. Not heavy. Just present.

“You come to group often?”

“Couple times a week.”

“Why?”

‘My sister. She’s in her fifth rehab stint. This one’s in Arizona. Desert views. God and green juice. The works.”

Yelena huffs a laugh.

“Fuck.” She reels it back. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”

“Don’t be. I laugh about it too.”

They fall into step again. The city sounds rise and fall around them. Cars. Music. A siren somewhere distant.

“You should decide what you’re gonna say to her. The first time is always weird. I’ve realized it’s easier if you come prepared.”

“I want to shake her. I want to hold her. I want her to say she’ll fix everything. I want to believe it.”

“None of those are mutually exclusive…I’ve wanted to kill my sister and protect her in the same breath. That’s love, I think. Stupid and savage and soft.”

Another pause. This one softer. Yelena finds herself watching Ava again. The sharpness in her tone hasn’t dulled the warmth in her face.

“How long was your sister sober? Before Arizona…” Yelena asks.

“Two years. Then…bad overdose too. I don’t know what happened. She won't tell me. Three months sober this time. I haven’t talked to her since she checked in. Says she needs distance to focus. And I’m…pretending I’m okay with that.”

Yelena nods. “Yeah.”

“Anyway…you did good tonight. Saying all that. Takes guts.”

“Didn’t feel brave.”

“It never does.”

Another silence. This one warmer.

“Do you think they change? I mean…really change?” Yelena asks.

“I think they can.”

“But do they?”

Ava exhales. “Sometimes.”

“Her brother was an addict. OD’d. Same thing. Cocaine. Her parents are basically functioning alcoholics. It’s a family affair apparently. I keep asking myself if I’m delusional for thinking she’s gonna make it out. That she won’t end up the same. I don’t even know if I can trust her again. Not really.”

“She’s not her brother. Or her parents.” Ava’s voice is quiet but certain.

“No. But she’s still her.”

They stop at the corner. Ava turns to face her, eyes catching the streetlight just right. Too perceptive, too steady.

“Then make sure she’s coming back to someone real. Not just to her guilt…Or your fear.”

The words land hard. Not cruel. Just true.

They walk in silence for a few blocks. The kind of silence that doesn’t ache. Just exists. Like they’re making space for each other in real time.

“How old are your kids?” Ava asks.

“Rounding up? Eight, five, and eighteen months.”

“Woof. That’s a lot of snack crumbs.”

Yelena lets out a soft, unexpected laugh.

“So much vacumming.”

“I think the best we can do is be someone they’d be proud of. At their best. And hope they meet us with that same energy.”

Yelena doesn’t respond. She doesn’t know how to. She just looks at Ava. This stranger who doesn’t feel like one. This woman who’s asked nothing of her.

Yelena doesn’t know if she wants anything from her either. Doesn’t know if this is a connection, or just two people orbiting the same ache. But it feels like something. Like space. Like room to exhale. It feels like air. And after the last month, that feels like a fucking miracle.

Her heart starts pounding. Not from panic. Not from grief. But from the quiet shock of still being alive. From something warmer. Stranger. Hope, maybe. Or the very early outline of it.

//\\

They take her shoelaces first.

The moment she’s admitted she’s left barefoot, shaking, silent. Then they cut the strings out of her sweatpants. Just protocol. Then her hoodie. Then her bag. They peel her life away piece by piece, like they’re undressing her for autopsy.

Everything sharp. Everything with a cord or edge or weight is removed. For her safety, they say.

That’s the first time she genuinely cries. Not the ER. Not the ICU. Not even on the ride over.

It’s the moment a stranger puts most things she owns in a clear plastic bag with her name on it and says, “You’ll get these back when you discharge.”

It hits her then…she’s not leaving for a while.

They take her phone next. That one hurts worse. Yelena and the kids are lock screen. Alexia on her hip. Sonny asleep in her arms. Maks making a face behind them. That photo…the one she looked at every time she felt like a failure…is gone now too.

The woman at intake tells her kindly that the first 72 hours are the worst. If she can get through those mostly sane, she’ll probably be okay.

Kate nods. Says nothing.

//

Kate pukes six times in the first three hours. She was still getting SOME drugs at the hospital. For the pain. That dulled the edges of the symptoms. She’s not getting anything here and that sends her spiraling.

Withdrawal is…hell.

She knew it would be. She vividly remembers watching DJ go through it. The cold sweats. The bone-deep ache. The tremors. But nothing…nothing…could prepare her for the fucking silence.

There are no distractions here. No phone to scroll. No playlist to drown out the static in her head. No Yelena to pick a fight with. No kids to orbit. Just time. Time and pain and shame.

She doesn't talk for the first week. Not in any real way. Just enough to get through the vitals check. Just enough to keep people out of her face. But the thoughts don’t stop.

The worst part isn’t the physical withdrawal.

The worst part is remembering the look on Yelena’s face the first time she saw her in the hospital. The disappointment behind her eyes now that she fully knew what Kate had been up to.

//

Day six, she cracks.

Not publicly. Not in front of the group or staff or the med tech who hands out her meds like communion. But in the shower. On the floor. She slides down the wall, shaking and soaked, her forehead pressed to her knees. She sobs until she dry-heaves.

And even then, it doesn’t feel like enough.

The guilt doesn’t come in waves. It sits on her chest. A cinderblock. Constant. Every time she thinks about Sonny’s face. Or Alexia’s voice. Or Maks rapid fire questions.

She doesn’t deserve to get better. That’s the thought. Over and over. She doesn’t deserve to get better.

//

Day nine, her group counselor calls her out.

“You can’t sit in the back with your arms crossed forever, Bishop.”

Kate meets her eyes.

“Bet I can.”

The woman laughs.

“Wanna bet your gym privileges?”

That night, Kate speaks in group for the first time. It isn’t poetic. It isn’t a breakthrough. It’s one sentence.

“My wife found me.”

No one says anything. Someone nods. Another whispers “fuck” under their breath. Kate doesn’t say more. Doesn’t need to.

It’s the first time she refers to Yelena as her wife since the divorce paperwork was filed.

//

By Day Fourteen, she sleeps through the night. Mostly. She stops sweating through her sheets. Stops throwing up after every meal. Stops pacing the length of her room at 3AM trying to scrape the itch out of her skin. But she still doesn’t feel right.

There’s something about sobriety no one tells you: when the drugs leave your system, the rest of you catches up. All the things you were trying not to feel? They wait for you.

Kate starts journaling because they make her. She writes like she’s reporting someone else’s crimes. Third person. Detached. But eventually the sentences bend. Become personal.

“I wanted to disappear.”

“I didn’t think about the fact that they were home.”

“I wasn’t trying to die. But I didn’t care if I did.”

//

The staff calls Kate “high-functioning.” Says she presents well. Says she’s a “good candidate for reintegration.”

Kate wants to throw a chair through the window. Of course she presents well. She always has. That’s what scares her the most.

Even in rehab, even after nearly dying, she can still talk her way into being believed. She can say what they need to hear. Smile at the right moment. Show progress in a measured, digestible way.

She can do that. And underneath?

She wants to use again. She wants the quiet. Not all the time. Not every second. But enough. Enough that it scares her.

//

The reports go to Yelena, apparently. Kate finds that out from her counselor during one of their one-on-ones.

“She’s listed as your primary contact. She’s been receiving regular updates.” The woman says.

Kate’s throat closes.

“She’s reading them?”

“As far as I know.”

Something shifts in Kate’s chest then. A sob she doesn’t let out. A hope she doesn’t want to feed. She nods. Bites her lip until she tastes blood.

Then she asks what more she has to do to earn her visit privileges.

//

On Day Twenty-One, they tell Kate she has a visit scheduled.

Saturday. 10AM.

She doesn’t ask who it is. She already knows. After all this time, Yelena is coming. And Kate? She isn’t ready. Not even a little. But she wants to be.

Kate has a couple days to figure out how to look her in the eye. Days to become someone worthy of being seen.

So Kate sits down. Picks up the pen. And starts writing.

“Dear Yelena…”

She writes. Then writes some more. Like a prayer.

And hopes…just fucking hopes…she’s earned the chance to say it out loud.

//

SATURDAY

Yelena pulls into the lot an hour early. It’s the only way she knows she won’t be late.

She’s been parked for nearly fifty minutes now. The engine’s off. The clock glows 9:43AM. Her hands are locked around the steering wheel like she’s afraid it’ll bolt. The dash ticks forward.

9:44.

Her stomach backflips.

It’s been twenty-four days since she last saw Kate. Not that she hasn’t seen her. Kate’s in her head constantly. Eyes half-lidded. Mouth slack. Skin cold and blue against the tile. That image lives behind her eyelids now. Every night.

Yelena exhales slowly. Unbuckles. Grabs the small duffel from the passenger seat. There’s a few changes of clothes, a new toothbrush, the kids’ drawings. And a letter from Alexia that she wouldn’t let anyone read. Yelena respect her wishes and hasn’t opened it. She doesn’t know what it says. Only hopes it won’t hurt more than it helps.

She shoulders the bag and walks toward the building.

//

The lobby is sterile. Cheerful in a curated, eerie way. The woman at the desk greets her with a soft, professional smile.

“We just finished morning group. They’ll bring her out shortly.”

Yelena nods and takes a seat in a stiff chair that squeaks beneath her. The corners of the room feel round. Soft. Safe. There’s a fake plant next to the bookshelf and a corkboard full of smiling headshots. Recovered alumni with laminated quotes printed underneath. She stares at it. Trying to reconcile the feelings it brings forth.

Then she hears footsteps. Her whole body tenses. Kate turns the corner with her counselor a step behind her. And for a second, Yelena forgets how to breathe.

Kate looks…diminished. Not thinner, not sickly, but smaller somehow. Like something’s been hollowed out. Her posture’s straighter than before. Rigid, even. But she looks like someone scrubbed her down too hard and left her raw. There’s no makeup. No armor. Just a braid, clean clothes, and a face that no longer knows what to expect.

It’s the most honest Yelena’s seen her in a long time.

//

Kate hovers by the visitor check-in desk, one hand buried deep in her pocket, fingers toying with the folded letter she’s eager to give. The other hand stays rigid at her side, pressed flat against her thigh to keep it from shaking. She hasn’t worn real clothes in three weeks. Just rehab-issue sweats and those sad little socks with grippy soles. But today, she asked for jeans. A shirt that fits. Something that gives some semblance of normalcy.

She tries to remember how she used to hold herself when she was out in the world. In real life. Taller, maybe. Shoulders back. Chin higher. Now it all feels like like she’s cosplaying herself.

She rounds the corner. Stops cold. Yelena is already there.

It’s like walking into a memory. Her blonde hair is down, loose waves framing her face. She’s wearing a green dress. Deep, sea glass green. The kind that makes her eyes burn brighter. The shoes even match. Kate doubts she dressed up for this. It’s just how Yelena always looks. But some part of her wants to believe Yelena tried. Because she did. God, she did.

Their eyes meet. Blue and green. Yelena offers a soft smile. Walks forward. Kate mirrors her.

She watches Yelena’s gait. It’s different. Slower. Measured. Like her balance has shifted in the last three weeks. Like something invisible’s been redistributed in her bones.

They stop two feet apart.

The counselor, all clipped warmth, gives the spiel.

“You’ll have one hour. There’s a private room down the hall. No touching outside of one hello and one goodbye hug. No gifts. Bags will be held and checked for restricted items.”

Yelena nods, wordless. Hands over the duffel bag. Watches the staff unzip it, flip through everything. A sweatshirt gets held up. A t-shirt stretched by its seams. They check the hems like Yelena stitched heroin into the thread.

Kate can’t look at her. She almost flinches when she hears the whisper.

“Hi.” Yelena finally says.

Kate turns. Yelena’s looking right at her. Steady. Calm.

“Hi,” Kate echoes.

That’s it. Nothing more. Just that small, brutal exchange between two people who’ve known each other too long to need filler.

The staff goes on rifling. After a beat, they’re cleared to carry on with the visit.

They walk. Side by side. Not touching. Not speaking. Just breathing the same air again. For the first time in twenty-four days.

Kate gestures to the far end of the corridor.

“They call it the Family Room. Which is hilarious.”

Yelena gives a half snort. Not quite a laugh.

“A little on the nose.”

Inside, it’s beige and beige and more beige.There’s a round table and two plastic chairs. A small couch. A box of tissues. Everything in here is either unbreakable or bolted down.

Kate sits. Yelena follows. Across from each other. A few feet and a lifetime apart. For a minute, they don’t speak.

“You look…” Kate trails off. “Good.”

“You look tired.”

“I am.” Kate chuckles once.

“You feel okay?”

“Define ‘okay.’”

Yelena chuckles too. It’s a start.

“Alex drew you something.”

Yelena hands over the folder she was holding.

Kate opens it gingerly. Inside, a few drawings. The top one is definitely Alexia’s. A seven-year-old’s crayon-scribbled mess…but Kate knows exactly what it is. Their family. All five of them. Yelena and Kate holding hands. Alexia with a thundercloud over her head. Maks mid-dinosaur attack. Sonny holding what looks like a sword but might just be a juice box.

Kate’s hand trembles slightly.

“How is she?” Kate asks.

“She’s quiet. That’s new…I think she’s just processing.”

Kate’s eyes drop to the paper again. Shakes her head. Guilt washing over her.

“She still drew you…She wanted to.”

Kate closes the folder like it’s fragile. Like if she moves too fast, the whole thing might shatter.

“How’s Karina?” Kate asks after a long beat.

Yelena furrows her brow, taken aback. The name drops like a coin in water.

“I don’t remember the last time anyone called her that.”

“It’s her name.”

“It is.”

“I was…we did this thing in group this morning. Had to write down our kids’ full names. I don’t know. It’s just…stuck in my head.”

“She made a friend at daycare. Bit her. We’re dealing with that.”

Kate groans.

“God. How bad?”

“Tiny vampire-level bite. Minimal blood. But emotionally? Devastating.”

Kate snorts.

“Sounds like her.”

“She’s still teething. Still pissed at the world about it. Honestly, biting is low on the list of traumatizing things she’s done this week.” Yelena offers with a faint smile.

“She’s STILL teething? How many teeth does she even have to grow?”

“She’s a dental overachiever.”

Kate smiles again, something honest breaking through in her face. Yelena leans back in her chair, studying her. Kate knows that look. The scan. The slow once-over. Watching for tremors, pupil dilation, the microexpressions of a lie. Yelena doesn’t speak until she’s satisfied.

“Maks only sleeps in my bed now,” Yelena adds quietly. “And he refuses to eat soup. Says it’s a vegetable conspiracy.”

Kate lets out a real laugh. Short. Startled. She covers her mouth like it slipped out by accident.

“He needs to stop spending so much time with my dad.”

“I miss his weird little brain.”

“He misses you too.”

Kate’s smile falters. Her throat works around something that doesn’t quite make it out.

“Yeah?”

Yelena nods.

“He asks when you’re coming home. All day long.”

Kate glances away, jaw tight.

“What do you tell him?”

“That you’re trying really hard.”

Kate nods, slow. Thoughtful.

“Do you believe that?”

“I hope so.”

Another silence. This one different. Softer. But sharp around the edges.

Yelena glances at the clock. Half the visit gone.

Kate shakes her head. A breath escapes her, half a laugh, half a sigh.

“Jesus, I missed you.”

Yelena doesn’t say it back.

Kate notices.

//

They talk about the kids. About therapy. About Susan. About school drop-offs and field trips and Maks accidentally calling Alexei “Dad” in public. They fall into the shape of old habits. Let it breathe between them.

Kate talks about group. About a woman who keeps trying to convince her yoga will change her life. About journaling. About her roommate who snores and cries in the shower and reminds her of DJ in all the worst ways. She talks about detox. About how bad it got.

Yelena listens.

Then finally, Kate says what she’s been trying not to.

“So…next week’s thirty.” Yelena nods. “I could come home. Technically.” She pauses. “Do you want me to?”

Yelena doesn’t answer right away. And that’s the answer.

“I think it’d be a mistake.”

Kate swallows. Nods once.

“Okay.”

“You don’t?” Kate hesitates. Then shrugs. Deflated. “You’re doing better. But you’re not there.”

“You don’t think I could be…at home? With you. With the kids?”

“I think you need to want to get better more than you want to be home.”

Kate looks down at her hands.

“I thought…I don’t know. You’d be mad if I stayed.”

“I’d be mad if you came home too soon.” Kate shrugs. “I wanted you back every second of every day. Until I found you on the bathroom floor. Now…I just want you alive.”

Kate looks down at her hands. Rubs her thumb against a hangnail.

“You should’ve let me die.”

Yelena’s hand slams against the table. Violently. Loud. Final.

“Don’t fucking say that to me. Ever. Are we clear?”

Kate doesn’t look up.

“You weren’t supposed to be there.”

“And what? Alex was?” Yelena’s voice rises. “Maks? Sonny?”

Kate flinches. Holds the silence for a long beat.

“I wasn’t trying to die.” Kate argues, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.

“Then what were you trying to do?”

Kate doesn’t have an answer. She’s been looking for one since it happened.

Yelena leans back. Crosses her arms. Lets the silence burn. Finally, Kate lifts her chin. Meets her eyes.

“Is there still a life to come back to?”

“I don’t know.”

And that silence is louder than anything Kate’s heard since she got sober.

They sit in it. Sit in what’s left. It’s not dramatic. It’s not even tense. Just…true.

“I guess I could stay.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

Kate hates how calm Yelena sounds. How reasonable. How fucking distant. She wants to knock the table over. To scream. ‘Are you fucking serious? That’s all I get? ‘That’s a good idea?’’

Instead, she just nods. “Yeah.”

For some reason, this hurts more than anything else. More than the broken ribs. Or the detox pain. Or the days alone with her thoughts. This moment. This quiet, reasonable agreement that her being gone is what’s best for the people she loves…it shatters her in slow motion.

Yelena isn’t begging her to come home. Isn’t clinging. Isn’t even cracking. She’s not screaming that she needs her, or that the kids do, or that this is killing her. She just sits there, composed, steady. It stings like nothing else.

“So you’re not mad that I’m not coming home?”

“I’m relieved you’re not pretending you’re ready.”

The words land like a punch to the sternum.

“So what, you want me in here forever?”

“You should stay until you’re well. That’s it.”

Kate swallows. Her throat burns. She focuses on her breath. Four seconds in, six seconds out. One of those grounding gimmicky tricks from therapy. The silence between them starts to hum with everything neither of them is saying.

“I thought…if I stayed clean. If I finished thirty days…you’d want me back.”

“I want you alive.” Yelena’s voice is even.

“Not the same thing.”

“No. It’s not.”

They let that ache. Kate leans forward, elbows on knees, palms open.

She thought seeing Yelena would feel like winning. Like some impossible victory. She thought it would feel like returning from war. Roses. Relief. Redemption.

Instead, it feels like standing in front of a locked door with no key. Because she broke it. She broke it, and Yelena isn’t even reaching for the handle anymore.

“When they told me you were coming, I thought…” Kate exhales hard. “I don’t know. I thought it would feel like something was over. Like I passed a test.”

“This isn’t pass/fail.” Yelena offers, gentle.

“Try telling that to my brain at 3AM.”

Yelena leans in too now. Mirrors her posture. Hands folded.

“I’m proud of you for staying.”

Kate laughs, humorless. “Yeah. You would be.”

“Kate…” Yelena’s voice is careful now, but not soft. She studies her. Sees through her. Always has. “If you were ready, actually ready, we’d talk about next steps. But you’re not. And I’m not doing this halfway. The kids deserve better. You deserve better.”

Kate’s eyes shine. Not with anger. With something deeper. Sadder. More familiar.

“I didn’t think it would feel this fucking lonely.” Yelena reaches across the table. Takes her hand. “I don’t know when I’m coming out,” Kate admits.

“That’s okay. Everyone will be waiting.”

‘Everyone’. Not ‘I’. That one word guts her.

Kate grips her hand tighter.

“Will you bring the kids?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I miss them so fucking much.”

“When you’re ready. Not before.”

“Okay.” Kate’s voice cracks.

Yelena squeezes her hand.

“You’re doing good…You are.”

Kate shakes her head.

“I feel like shit, Yel. All the time.”

“That’s part of it.”

They sit like that. Hands clasped. No more pretending. Just two people who’ve loved each other longer than some countries last.

The door opens. Someone pops their head in.

“Five minutes.” They say.

Yelena nods. Stands. Kate does too.

“Tell them I love them.” Kate pleads softly.

“I do. Every day.”

Kate hesitates.

“And you?”

Yelena doesn’t answer. Just looks at her. Kate waits a second, then steps into her arms. The hug is brief…too brief…but it grounds her. She breathes for the first time in weeks.

Yelena pulls back first.

“I’ll talk to your therapist. If it’s cleared, I’ll bring them next time.”

Kate nods. Doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t say please. Just nods.

Yelena turns. Kate doesn’t stop her. Doesn’t watch her walk away. Doesn’t say come back. Doesn’t say don’t leave. Just stands there and watches the woman she’s still in love with disappear through the door.

Kate closes her eyes. Slips her hand into her pocket and pulls out the letter she didn’t give. The one she rewrote a dozen times. The one she planned to give because she knew the words in it wouldn’t come out right if she tried. She unfolds it.

“Dear Yelena,

I didn’t think you’d come. I wouldn’t have, if I were you.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to say for days and I still don’t have it. I don’t know that I ever will. There’s no version of this that makes it okay. And even if there was, you wouldn’t owe me forgiveness.

So I’m not writing this to fix anything.

I’m writing it because I almost died. And if I had, I think I would’ve gone with your name in my mouth. I think that’s something you deserve to know.

I don’t remember most of that night. Not really. Just flashes. I don’t know how to explain what happened. I don’t know how I let it get that far. I don’t know what I thought I was doing. Truth is, I think I’ve been unraveling for a long time. Quietly. Bit by bit.

DJ told me the urge to use wasn’t loud. It waits. It creeps up. Builds a nest in the silence. I didn’t listen. And I almost followed him.

I’m sorry for a lot of things. But most of all, I’m sorry it was you who had to find me like that. Who had to save me. Who’s had to pick up the pieces now that I’m away.

I don’t deserve whatever grace you’ve got left for me. I probably never did. But I’m here. And I’m trying. Every second of every day. I miss the kids like fucking crazy. I miss you so much it’s almost suffocating.

I’m not asking for anything. Not a second chance. Not a maybe. I just don’t want you to forget what we were. Because we were good, Yel. We were great. We were the best thing I ever did.

Tell them I love them. That I’m getting better. That I’ll come home in a few days. That Mommy’s working really hard to be okay again.

I don’t know what life looks like on the other side of this. But if you’re ever willing to talk…I’d like to. About possibilities. About us. About what could still be.

Maybe we’re not all the way gone yet.

I love you. Always have.

-KB”

Kate stares at the last line. She folds the paper shut. Walks to the door. On her way out, she passes the trash can in the hallway.

She chucks it in.

[twistedheartsclub]

The Height of Obsession Male X Reader Short story

⚠️ Dubcon/Noncon themes, obsessive behavior, kidnapping, captivity, power imbalance, forced intimacy, psychological manipulation, size kink, emotional trauma, dark yandere themes, controlling behavior, grooming, gaslighting

Y/N wasn’t supposed to be walking home that night.

Her friends had begged her to stay—wait out the rain, crash at their place, even offered to call a rideshare—but she insisted. It was only a few blocks. And the air, cool and misty, felt like it might help clear her head.

She didn’t expect to pass his house.

The massive old Victorian always loomed over the street, tucked behind black iron gates and tall hedges. People whispered about the man who lived there—some said he was a recluse, others claimed he was dangerous. A shut-in. A freak.

Y/N never gave him much thought. Until the gate creaked open.

“Hey,” came a deep voice from the shadows. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

She stopped. Looked toward the porch—and there he stood.

Him.

Massive. Towering. Built like a tree—no, a cathedral. At least 6’11, if not taller. He had to duck under the porch light to step closer. His hair dark, his eyes strange. He was barefoot on the rain-slick wood.

“Storm’s going to get worse,” he said softly, almost shyly. “You can wait it out inside. I’ve got blankets. Tea.”

Something in his voice felt…gentle. Like he didn’t know how terrifying he looked.

Y/N hesitated—but only for a moment.

And then she followed him inside.

The door shut behind her with a heavy clack.

She took in the house: high ceilings, books stacked to the rafters, the faint scent of woodsmoke and lavender. The heat was comforting. The rain beat harder against the windows.

“Do you live alone?” she asked.

He turned toward her. Smiled—awkward, wide. “Yeah. Been alone a long time. Until now.”

Her skin prickled. She almost didn’t notice how he’d locked the door.

Silas Vane hadn’t always been a ghost on the block. Years ago, people remembered seeing him hauling lumber, restoring beams, silently fixing things no one asked him to. But over time, he faded from their memory—until only the occasional light behind the tall windows confirmed the house was still occupied.

He liked it that way.

He didn’t want to be seen.

Until she moved into the neighborhood.

Y/N. Sweet, soft Y/N. Young and polite—always with a kind smile for strangers, even when she didn’t realize someone was watching.

She passed his house every morning on her way to work or class. Always dressed just a little too light for the weather. Sometimes she’d hum to herself. Sometimes she’d stop to fix her sock or dig through her bag. And sometimes—only once or twice—she glanced up at his window, eyes narrowing like she felt something.

She did.

He was there.

Always watching.

At first, Silas told himself it was innocent curiosity. She reminded him of something long lost—gentleness, maybe. Warmth. Hope.

But that faded fast.

It wasn’t curiosity anymore.

It was need.

He memorized her schedule. Knew where she liked to shop, what snacks she kept in her bag, how she always paused at the crosswalk even when the light turned green. He had photos of her, drawings of her, scraps of paper in his notebooks with her name written over and over again.

She was too soft to be out there alone. Too sweet. Too trusting.

It had to be him. He was the only one strong enough to keep her.

He just had to wait for the right moment—

A night when she’d be alone. Cold. Vulnerable.

A night when the storm would mask her footsteps.

When she’d walk right into the wolf’s den with a smile and a thank-you.

And stay

The wind howled against the glass like something alive, clawing at the windowpanes. Rain pounded the roof in angry sheets, washing the world outside in shadows and flashes of pale light. But inside Silas Vane’s home, it was still—too still.

The living room was massive. High-beamed ceilings, antique wood floors, and a stone fireplace that crackled gently. Everything smelled like cedar, smoke, and something faintly floral—lavender or dried herbs. It was beautiful in a heavy, old way. Like the house had seen too much and forgotten none of it.

Y/N sat perched on the edge of a wide leather armchair, her dress still damp at the hem, curls of hair clinging to her cheeks. She rubbed her arms for warmth, glancing around shyly, trying to fill the silence.

“So… you live here all alone?” she asked, voice light, polite.

Silas stood near the kettle, hulking and silent for a beat too long before he nodded.

“Just me,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “It’s quieter that way.”

She gave a small laugh. “Yeah, I guess it is peaceful. A little spooky, though. This place is huge.”

He turned toward her, carrying a mug between those enormous hands—hands that looked like they could crush stone or cradle a kitten. She reached for the tea.

When he handed it to her, his fingers overlapped hers.

And stayed.

She looked up.

His eyes were strange in the firelight—dark, glinting, fixed only on her. His skin was warm, rough with old callouses, and the cup felt tiny between both their grips. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stared down at her with an unreadable expression.

Y/N smiled nervously, trying to pull the mug fully into her lap. “Thanks… that’s really sweet.”

His fingers finally slid away, grazing hers. Slowly. Purposefully.

“I don’t get many visitors,” he murmured. “It’s nice. Having someone here.”

She sipped the tea to avoid responding. It was strong and sweet. Calming. Her body began to warm, but something in her chest twitched—unease? Or just the quiet settling in?

Lightning flashed behind the window. The wind roared again.

She didn’t notice he’d locked the front door after she came in.

Didn’t notice how he kept standing, looming a little too close.

Didn’t notice how the walls around her were lined with little signs—photos of her clipped from the paper. A sketch of her pinned under a bookshelf. A scarf she lost months ago draped casually across the back of a chair.

But he noticed everything.

And tonight, he decided, he would not let her leave.

The storm outside had turned violent.

Wind lashed at the windows with startling force, and thunder rolled like distant cannon fire. The soft crackle of the fireplace was the only other sound, its orange glow flickering across the walls like dancing shadows.

Y/N sat tucked into the corner of the armchair, the now-empty mug cupped in her lap. Her fingers fidgeted with the rim as she glanced around the dim room, feeling the weight of the silence pressing down on her.

She cleared her throat softly. “Um… I didn’t realize it would get this bad. My phone’s dead, and I didn’t get to tell my mom I’d be late.”

Silas turned slowly from the fire he’d just built, his massive form outlined by the glow. He walked past her and bent to add another log to the flames. The wood snapped and popped, momentarily drowning out her thoughts.

“She’ll be okay,” he said without turning. “You’re safe here.”

She forced a smile, though her stomach twisted. “Yeah, I just… she worries.”

He finally sat in the armchair across from her—though even seated, he felt impossibly tall. The firelight lit the sharp angles of his face, the set of his jaw, and those dark, watchful eyes. He said nothing.

So she tried again.

“I didn’t catch your name…?”

“Silas.”

“Silas,” she repeated gently. “It’s a nice name. Um… what do you do for work?”

His lips twitched—something close to a smile, but not quite.

“Carpentry. Old homes. Restoration. I mostly keep to myself. I like things that take time to build.”

She nodded, trying to keep the conversation moving.

“Did you grow up around here?”

“This house belonged to my grandfather,” he said. “I inherited it. He left it to me… and I’ve been here ever since.”

His voice was low and smooth, but every answer felt like a dead end.

Y/N swallowed and glanced at the fire. Her heart thudded a little faster now—not from fear exactly, but from the thick, wordless presence of him. Like she’d stepped into a dream that hadn’t quite decided whether it wanted to be a nightmare.

“…You’re very tall,” she said before she could stop herself, then laughed. “Sorry, that was dumb.”

Silas didn’t laugh.

“I know,” he said.

He stared at her for a moment too long.

Then, softly:

“I saw you once. Walking past the gate. You looked cold. Your coat was too thin.”

Her fingers froze on the mug.

“You noticed that?”

He nodded. “I notice a lot of things about you.”

The fire popped loudly. She jumped. He didn’t.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a long time,” he said, voice deep and quiet, like they were sharing a secret. “You’re even softer up close. I knew you would be.”

She blinked, smile faltering.

“…What do you mean?”

He tilted his head, eyes locked on her like a wolf watching something small and trembling. And yet his voice stayed calm—gentle, even loving.

“I meant… you shouldn’t be out there alone. People take advantage of girls like you. You trust too easily.”

He leaned forward slowly, forearms resting on his knees. His frame eclipsed the firelight.

“But it’s okay now,” he whispered. “You’re here.”

The shirt he gave her hung like a dress on her frame—soft, worn cotton that smelled faintly of cedarwood and something darker beneath it. She tugged it down over her thighs, cheeks warm with embarrassment. The hem brushed mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing her hands. He hadn’t looked too long when he handed it over… but she felt the weight of his gaze lingering, heavy and silent, before the door shut behind her.

Now, barefoot, hair still damp, Y/N padded down the narrow hall, drawn by the clatter of pots and the scent of something warm and savory.

The kitchen was… odd.

Everything was stretched and restructured—counters lifted to an unnatural height, cupboards extended vertically, a custom-built refrigerator almost as tall as the ceiling. She realized with a small jolt that she wouldn’t have been able to reach a single thing in here without a stool.

Silas moved through it effortlessly.

She watched from a high stool near the island as he stirred something in a large pot, his enormous back to her. The overhead light cast shadows along the sharp edges of his shoulders.

The silence was thick again. He only grunted when she greeted him.

So she started to talk.

Polite. Light. Harmless.

“Thanks again… for letting me borrow this. My outfit was drenched.” She gave a soft laugh. “I probably looked like a soaked cat when you let me in.”

His grunt might’ve been a chuckle. Might not.

Y/N smoothed her damp hair behind one ear, fingers fidgeting. “So, um… I’m in school. For now, anyway. Studying early childhood education. I want to teach little ones. I’ve always loved kids, y’know?”

Another pause. The sound of a knife on cutting board.

“I turn twenty next weekend. My friends are planning this big trip—kind of a getaway thing. Just for fun. Nothing crazy.”

He paused for a moment. She didn’t see his face. Just the way his shoulders stiffened.

Then he stirred the pot again.

Y/N bit her lip and kept going. “We’re supposed to leave Friday night… if the weather clears up by then. They want to go to a lake house a few hours from here. Fire pit, karaoke, that kind of thing.”

Still no reply.

She glanced at him again. “You… ever celebrate birthdays?”

A beat.

Then, finally, his voice—quiet, almost reverent:

“You’re not even twenty.”

She blinked. “Not yet, no.”

Silas slowly turned, wooden spoon in hand, eyes unreadable as they swept over her—bare legs, drowned in his shirt, her bare feet curled on the stool’s rung. He said nothing for a moment too long.

“You shouldn’t go on that trip.”

Y/N’s smile faltered. “…Why not?”

His expression stayed blank, but his voice darkened slightly.

“Girls like you don’t come back the same from places like that.”

He turned back to the stove, dropping the spoon into the sink.

“You’re safer here.”

That last part was muttered. Like it wasn’t meant for her. Or maybe it was. She couldn’t tell anymore.

The storm still raged outside, but suddenly it was the silence between them that felt louder.

“How old are you?” Y/N asked, swinging her legs softly, her bare feet brushing the tall stool’s rung.

Silas didn’t turn from the stove.

“Thirty-eight.”

She blinked. “You don’t look that old. I mean—not in a bad way.”

He grunted. Another almost-chuckle.

The silence stretched again. Y/N sighed, twisting on the stool like a bored cat.

“Do you, um… have a TV?”

This time, a low laugh did escape him. He shook his head, wiping his hands on a towel and jerking his chin toward the far corner. “No. But I’ve got a radio.”

She perked up a little, hopping down and crossing the room.

The radio was vintage—heavy dials, scratched knobs, old enough to belong to a grandfather’s garage. She flicked it on. Static burst, then suddenly—

Gritty, masculine rock music blasted from the speakers. Loud. Harsh. The kind of thing that sounded like boots stomping through mud and blood.

Y/N winced. “Jesus.”

She fiddled with the dial, fingers turning carefully until a softer tune flowed through—rhythmic, warm, with a dreamy beat that made her sway a little as it filled the kitchen.

“Ooh, I love this song,” she smiled, glancing over her shoulder. “The artist wrote it after a breakup, actually. She said it helped her reclaim her own body, her joy. Like—dancing alone in your apartment, you know?”

Silas didn’t answer.

She turned back toward the radio, dancing a little in place, still speaking lightly. “And the bridge is my favorite part—it’s so raw. She talks about being tired of performing for other people’s comfort. I think that’s—”

She stopped.

Silas had walked up behind her—silent, massive.

He reached past her, so close she could feel the heat of him behind her, the weight of his chest near her back. One hand grazed the radio dial.

He turned it.

Click.

Back to the harsh, masculine track.

“You love to talk, don’t you,” he murmured, voice low and close now, right by her ear.

Not a question. A statement.

Y/N stiffened slightly, turning just enough to look up at him. He was staring down at her—expression unreadable, but his eyes glinted with something darker than before. Not irritation. Something almost fond. Like she was a pet that wouldn’t stop chirping.

“I—” She tried to laugh. “Sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

“You should be nervous,” he said quietly.

Then he smiled.

It wasn’t kind.

Silas didn’t say another word.

Just turned away from the radio, the heavy music pulsing in the background, and walked back to the counter. He reached for a cutting board and slid a knife across it before placing a peeled carrot in the center.

He gestured to her.

“Come here.”

Y/N hesitated—only for a breath—then followed, wiping her hands along the hem of his oversized shirt. When she reached the counter, he handed her the knife and motioned to the board.

“Chop.”

She took the blade carefully. It was heavy. The counter was high, and she had to stretch a bit to keep the movement smooth. She started to slice slowly, keeping her head down.

Silas returned to his own side, rinsing herbs and chopping roots with practiced ease.

Y/N tried to stay quiet, but silence pressed against her like thick wool. After two long minutes, her voice bubbled up again.

“I like cooking,” she said softly. “It helps me think.”

No reply.

“…I’m not great at it, though. I burn toast sometimes. But I make a really good mac and cheese—like, the best. My mom says I’ve got a ‘kid palate,’ whatever that means. I just like comfort food.”

Still nothing.

She glanced over at him, then back down. The knife clinked against the board.

“Do you have a favorite food?”

Silas wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned back against the counter. He watched her.

“…Stew,” he said finally. “With venison. Root vegetables. Things that take time.”

She smiled faintly. “Old soul.”

He didn’t smile back.

She looked down again, focusing on her cuts. “I’ll make you mac and cheese sometime. If I don’t burn it. You can judge it—give it a score or something.”

Then she felt it.

His footsteps. Slow. Quiet.

Then the heat of him behind her.

Y/N’s breath caught as his large hand gently closed around her wrist—loosening her grip on the knife.

“Not like that,” he murmured. “You’ll slice your fingers open.”

His other hand came around her waist, barely touching, and he guided her back into him, adjusting the angle of her body. His chest pressed to her back—solid, unmovable.

“Like this,” he whispered.

His hand molded over hers, fingers so large they nearly swallowed her grip completely. The scent of cedar, smoke, and something animalistic wrapped around her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

His chin hovered near her temple as he guided her through the motion—slow, deliberate slices. The blade hit the board in rhythm with her pulse.

“There,” he said finally. “Good girl.”

Her heart skipped.

He didn’t let go.

Y/N’s voice barely carried above the storm when she whispered, “Thank you.”

Silas didn’t reply.

Instead, he released her hand slowly, the weight of his palm dragging just a moment longer along her fingers before he stepped away. Without a word, he pointed toward the deep farmhouse sink and turned his back.

She washed her hands under hot water, heart thudding like it might shatter her ribs. The soap smelled like pine. Her reflection in the window above the sink looked pale—too pale. Wide-eyed.

When she turned around, he was already back at the stove.

“Sit,” he said without glancing at her.

She obeyed, curling back onto the high stool, folding her hands into her lap. The oversized shirt she wore brushed her thighs. It felt thinner now.

The music still played—still rough, but not as sharp. The station must have shifted again, and now a softer song crept through the space. Warm bass. Lazy vocals. Something slow you could fall asleep to if you weren’t scared.

He moved fluidly in the kitchen. Stirring. Tasting. The firelight reflected off the sheen of his forearms. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at her.

So she tried again—anything to break the thick, heavy quiet.

“Your job,” she said. “You said you do restorations?”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stirred the stew. A full minute passed before he finally spoke.

“I work alone.”

She nodded. “Must be hard work.”

“It’s good work. Wood listens better than people do.”

She smiled softly, trying to keep the mood light. “I guess that’s true. Doesn’t argue back.”

His jaw twitched.

“Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t wander off.”

Y/N blinked. “Oh…”

“I built this kitchen,” he said suddenly, voice sharper. “Every inch of it. People said it was impractical—‘No one your size needs to live alone,’ they told me.”

He turned slowly, finally looking at her.

“But I wasn’t building it for people.”

Their eyes met.

For a moment, she didn’t breathe.

“I was building it for me.”

A pause.

“And for whoever ends up here with me.”

His gaze dragged over her frame again—tucked into his shirt, damp curls falling over her cheek, legs swinging slightly off the stool. Possession flared behind his dark eyes.

“You’ll get used to the height.”

Y/N laughed softly, trying to brush off his strange comment about building the kitchen for two. “Well, you did a great job. I might need a ladder if I ever want to reach the top shelf, though.”

Silas didn’t smile, but his eyes stayed on her. Watching. Absorbing.

Dinner was served soon after.

The stew was thick, hot, and flavorful—rich with herbs and something smoky. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the first bite. The warmth unfurled in her chest like safety, and the tension in her shoulders eased a little.

“Oh my god,” she said between bites. “This is so good.”

He watched her across the table, hands folded. He hadn’t touched his own plate yet. Just… looked.

“You made this yourself?” she asked.

He nodded.

“You could open a restaurant. Seriously. I’m not even kidding.”

Still, he said nothing. But there was something like pride in the way he finally lifted his spoon and began to eat.

She talked the entire meal.

About the trip her friends were planning. Her favorite season (“Fall, always fall—it smells like change”). Her childhood dog. That one time she got food poisoning from gas station sushi. And he—Silas—sat there silently, eating slowly, gaze flickering between her mouth and her hands, her throat when she swallowed. Admiring. Consuming her in a different way.

When she shyly asked for seconds, he served her himself, piling the bowl higher than necessary. She laughed again.

After dinner, she followed him to the sink, sleeves rolled up, offering to help.

“I insist,” she said when he hesitated. “You cooked. I’ll clean. That’s the rule.”

She washed while he dried. Side by side. His frame eclipsed hers even when he wasn’t touching her. His hands, so large, dwarfed the plates.

Then—

Click.

The lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then off.

Y/N gasped, soap sloshing onto the counter. “Shit—!”

She stumbled back, hip knocking into the edge of the sink, her socked foot slipping on a drop of water. The shirt she wore shifted, pulling against her frame as her hand reached blindly for balance.

But she didn’t fall.

Silas caught her.

His hand pressed to her stomach, holding her steady against his chest. His other hand gripped the counter beside her. She felt the full breadth of him behind her—heat, muscle, breath.

Her own breathing quickened. Chest rising. He didn’t move.

The lights came back on.

And he still hadn’t moved.

Y/N turned her head slowly, glancing up at him. His face was inches from hers. His eyes locked to her like a predator locking in a final shot.

“Thanks,” she whispered breathlessly. “Again.”

She gently, gently pushed away, slipping from his arms as if she hadn’t just nearly jumped out of her skin.

He let her go.

Barely.

His hand lingered at her side for a second too long before falling away.

“You scare easy,” he murmured.

She gave a shaky laugh. “Only when the power cuts out in a thunderstorm. Horror movie stuff.”

Silas didn’t laugh.

He just stared.

And this time, the silence felt different.

Heavy. Final

An hour had passed since dinner.

The dishes were washed, the kitchen spotless, and now the living room was aglow with the golden flicker of the fire. Y/N sat curled on one end of the wide couch, legs tucked beneath her, Silas in a massive armchair that looked built for his size. A heavy wool blanket was draped over her shoulders.

She was on her second glass of wine.

She shouldn’t have accepted the first—her mother would kill her if she knew—but it was warm, and the burn of it softened the sharp edges of her nerves. The glass was half-full again. Or half-empty. She wasn’t sure.

She sipped, cheeks flushed, lips a little pinker than before. Her voice filled the space like birdsong—light, fluttery, random.

“I swear, if I wasn’t in school, I’d open a bakery,” she laughed. “I can’t decorate cakes to save my life, but I make really good cookies. I bake when I’m stressed.”

Silas nodded slowly, eyes never leaving her face. His glass of wine sat untouched.

She paused, then glanced toward the dark window. Something in her shifted.

“…The storm’s let up.”

She leaned forward, peeking through the curtain. Her smile bloomed like spring.

“Oh, wow—it’s barely even raining now! That’s good.”

She turned toward him with that same hopeful light in her voice.

“I should probably head home now, before it picks up again. If I leave now, I can still make it—”

“No,” Silas said softly.

Her smile faltered.

“I—I can walk,” she said. “It’s not far. I’ve got friends nearby—”

“I said no.”

His tone didn’t rise. It was gentle. Calm. But final.

She blinked. “Oh. I mean… I just don’t want to worry my mom. And if I could borrow a phone—mine’s dead, and I—”

“I don’t have a charger,” he replied. “And my phone doesn’t work.”

She stared at him.

“But you live alone,” she said, a little laugh escaping. “You really don’t have one at all?”

“I don’t need one.”

Silence.

The fire crackled.

She slowly set her wine glass down, trying not to look as unnerved as she felt.

“Silas… thank you again. Really. For the tea. And the food. But I should—”

“You’re not going outside,” he said. Louder this time. Not angry. Just… true.

Like it was a fact written into the walls.

Y/N’s throat dried. “Why not?”

He stood. Slowly.

And the room felt smaller.

Silas stepped toward her, eyes dark, voice hushed but steady.

“It’s not safe.”

She stood up, nearly stumbling from the wine, but backed away a step.

“It’s barely raining now—”

“I don’t care.”

He towered above her, blocking the glow of the fire. His face was unreadable. His breath steady.

“You’re not going back out there. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Y/N laughed softly, nervously. It came out too high.

“O-Okay, you’re serious,” she said, still trying to play it off. “I mean… thank you for caring, but I really should go home. My mom—”

He reached out.

Not fast. Not rough. But deliberate.

His hand wrapped around the stem of her wine glass and plucked it from her fingers.

She let him take it. Her breath hitched as she took a step back. Then another.

Silas didn’t follow—not yet. He set the glass down gently on the mantel.

She swallowed, hard. “You’ve been really kind—seriously—but this is starting to feel a little…”

Her voice trailed off. She didn’t want to say scary. Didn’t want to provoke him.

Instead she softened her tone, added a weak smile. “I just need to get back before my mom starts freaking out. That’s all. And I’ve taken enough of your time.”

Silas’s head tilted.

Like he was studying something small and unfamiliar. A puzzle piece that didn’t fit the picture in his head.

“I already told you,” he said, softly. “It’s not safe out there.”

“You said that,” she replied, inching toward the hallway. “But I’ll be okay, really—”

“You don’t understand yet.”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Y/N’s chest rose and fell faster now, fingers twitching at her sides. Her bare feet made soft sounds on the wood floor. The fire crackled behind him.

She glanced toward the front door.

Then to the window.

Could she run?

Would he catch her?

Of course he would, her mind whispered. He was nearly seven feet tall.

Her lips parted. “Silas—”

“I’ve been watching you,” he said.

She froze.

His eyes were locked on her. Steady. Unapologetic.

“I know your routes. Your habits. You wear the same sweater every Tuesday. You walk with your head down when it rains. You hum when you’re nervous. Like right now.”

Her mouth went dry.

“You’re not safe out there,” he said again. “But you’re safe here. With me.”

He took a step toward her.

She took one back.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“I made this house for two,” he murmured. “And you’re here now. That’s not a coincidence.”

Her heart thundered.

She turned—ran for the front door.

But the lock was already bolted.

And his footsteps were behind her, slow but certain.

Y/N’s hands scrambled at the lock—twisting the bolt, shoving the heavy door open with a breathless gasp of hope. The cool, damp air kissed her face, the sound of dripping rain and distant silence spilling in.

But the door only opened six inches.

Clink.

A thick, industrial-grade chain lock, anchored high above her reach, yanked taut.

“No—no, no—” she whimpered, rising on her tiptoes, reaching, stretching—too high. Much too high.

Her fingers barely grazed the chain.

She screamed.

“HELP—!”

The air shifted behind her.

Then—

SLAM.

The door was slammed shut with a thunderous crack, the sound echoing through the bones of the house. The bolts turned once. Twice. Locked again.

She spun, heart in her throat, and found Silas standing there—calm. Steady. Breathing like he’d simply closed a window.

Her own chest heaved with panic, eyes wild. “*Let me out—*please—you can’t do this—!”

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he stepped forward.

And when she tried to run past him, he simply caught her.

Like air. Like wind.

She flailed, kicked, twisted—but he only grunted once, adjusting his grip like she weighed nothing at all. Her limbs thrashed, feet hitting his shins, nails scraping his arm—but it was like trying to fight a wall of stone.

“No—no, put me down—!”

He said nothing.

Just carried her.

Up the stairs.

Each step creaked beneath his weight. Her heart pounded with each one. Her screams echoed down the hallway, but no one would hear. No one would come.

The upstairs hallway was dim, lined with old photographs. The house stretched impossibly long.

He turned into a room.

And laid her down.

Gently.

The bed beneath her was enormous—custom-built like everything else. Dark wood, towering posts, thick sheets that smelled like cedar and ironed cotton. Her legs tangled in the fabric as she tried to scramble away—but he was already stepping back.

Not to leave.

To undress.

“Stop—please, stop—” she gasped, voice breaking as her hands clutched the sheets.

He unbuttoned his shirt.

Each movement was slow. Deliberate. As if this wasn’t an abduction, but a quiet routine.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he said softly. “But you don’t understand yet. You need someone like me. To keep you. To protect you. To give you everything.”

The shirt hit the floor.

He reached for his belt.

Y/N’s entire body locked in place—adrenaline crashing through her, her flight response screaming louder than ever.

She had to run. Had to fight. Had to do something—

Because this man—this giant—was undressing like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And he didn’t look angry. Or aroused.

He looked peaceful.

Like a man finally coming home to what was always meant to be his.

She waited until he turned away for just a moment.

His hands moved toward the nightstand—maybe for the lamp, maybe for something worse—she didn’t know. She didn’t care.

Y/N seized the chance.

Her legs kicked free from the sheets and she launched herself off the side of the bed, heart slamming against her ribs, feet hitting the floor with a thud.

But she didn’t make it two steps.

A hand closed around her ankle—hard.

She screamed, kicking wildly, but in one brutal, smooth motion, Silas dragged her back across the bed like she weighed nothing. Her fingernails clawed at the mattress, panic-laced sobs catching in her throat.

“Stop!” she cried. “Please—don’t—!”

He didn’t listen.

Didn’t flinch.

With terrifying control, he knelt over her and ripped the shirt up her body—his shirt, the one she’d worn like a borrowed comfort. It tore free with a sickening ease, exposing her bare skin to the cold air and firelight.

She shrieked and scrambled to cover herself—but it was already too late.

His eyes didn’t roam.

They settled.

Like this was right.

Like this was his.

Y/N fought—arms flailing, legs kicking—but with one massive hand, Silas pinned her wrist above her head, flattening her back to the bed.

She thrashed beneath him, but he didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

He loomed over her, muscles flexed but face calm. His breathing was steady. Controlled. Like this wasn’t violence—it was a ceremony.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, as if it were a prayer. “Stop fighting me.”

Her chest heaved, tears sliding hot and fast across her temples into the bedding.

“Let me go,” she sobbed.

He shook his head slowly, lowering himself until his bare chest hovered just above hers.

“You’ll understand soon,” he whispered. “Why it has to be this way. Why it was always going to be me.”

And still—his hand didn’t shake. His grip didn’t loosen.

He had her.

And he was never going to let her go.

Silas leaned down, and without hesitation, kissed her.

Not like a man forcing something.

Not like a monster.

He kissed her like a lover.

His lips were warm—deceptively soft—and moved with an awful slowness, as if this were some long-awaited reunion. As if she were kissing him back. His free hand traced the edge of her cheek, then slid down—fingers finding the strap of her bra and tugging with careful intent.

Y/N whimpered against his mouth, trying to twist her face away, but his hand at her wrist held her steady. Firm. Possessive.

“Don’t,” she gasped.

He hushed her with another kiss, deeper now, lips moving with devotion as his hand unclasped the back of her bra with disturbing ease. She had never been undressed like this before. Never touched like this. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t want this.

But that didn’t matter to him.

To Silas, this wasn’t cruelty.

This was destiny.

His hands were gentle—reverent.

He slipped the bra away, baring her to the dim firelight, then moved lower, tracing the waistband of her underwear with calloused fingers. His mouth kissed down the side of her neck, slow and claiming.

Y/N writhed beneath him, tears streaming, but he only murmured softly between kisses. “I’ll take care of you. You don’t ever have to be afraid again.”

She cried out when he pulled the last barrier away—her underwear joining the pile of fabric he stripped from her body. A matching set. Pink lace. Something she wore to feel pretty, to feel human.

She never thought anyone would see it.

She never wanted anyone to.

His lips met hers again. Deep. Possessive. His tongue slid into her mouth like a brand. She struggled, pushed at his chest, legs shifting, trying to lock herself closed.

But he was too big. Too strong. And he held her down like a storm pinning a petal to the ground.

Her mind screamed.

You kissed one boy. One. And it was a joke. A dare in tenth grade. You were supposed to wait. To choose. Not this. Not him—

Still, he kissed her.

Still, his hands moved lower, wrapping around the softness of her thighs as he sighed against her mouth like she was a dream made real.

She kicked.

He tightened his grip.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered into her throat.

“You always were.”

Y/N’s breath came in ragged gasps.

Her arms trembled, wrists pinned above her head, body locked beneath his weight. Silas didn’t speak now. He didn’t need to. Every movement was deliberate, practiced—like he’d imagined this hundreds of times and now, finally, the moment had come.

His mouth worshiped her skin, trailing over her chest, down the curve of her ribs. He inhaled her like he was claiming something no one else would ever be allowed to touch. She sobbed beneath him, not just from fear, but from the overwhelming realization that this wasn’t about pleasure.

It was about possession.

When his face moved lower—when he buried himself against the most sacred part of her, kissing her like a man praying at an altar—her entire body convulsed in panic. She tried to twist away, to kick, to scream.

But he was unmoving. And terrifyingly gentle.

As if her thrashing didn’t offend him. As if it was expected.

Welcomed.

When she cried out, her voice cracking, he moaned into her. The sound of it was wrong. Too intimate. Too full of love.

“You’re everything I thought you’d be,” he murmured against her skin. “I knew you’d fight. I knew you’d be scared. But I’ve got you now. And I’m never letting go.”

His voice broke something inside her.

She didn’t know where her body ended and his began. His hands—those massive hands—held her open like she was fragile porcelain. Like he could break her with a thought, but chose not to.

And somehow, that was worse.

The fire crackled in the hearth. Rain tapped faintly against the windows. The house—the house he built for her—watched in silence as she came undone beneath him.

She didn’t know how long it lasted.

Time stretched and collapsed, warping under the weight of her helplessness. When she finally lay still—sobbing, trembling, raw—Silas kissed her forehead and whispered, “Good girl.”

He tucked her body against his. Not with cruelty. With something like love.

And that’s when she realized—

He didn’t think he’d hurt her.

He thought he’d saved her.

Silas hovered above her, knees braced between her thighs, his body a wall she couldn’t move through. The mattress dipped under his weight, every breath of his flooding the space between them, each exhale calm and steady—too steady.

Y/N sobbed, her hands pressed against his chest, trying in vain to push him away. Her legs were trembling. He took his time, dragging her closer with hands firm on her hips, as though her flailing wasn’t even an obstacle—just part of the rhythm. Like her terror was expected. Necessary.

“Stop fighting me,” he murmured. “You don’t understand now, but you will. I’m going to make sure no one ever touches you again.”

She shook her head violently. “Please—please don’t do this—”

He hushed her, not out of kindness, but possession. His hand slid up her ribs, across her chest, branding her with the press of his palm. His forehead met hers, their eyes locked, her tears mingling with his breath.

“I’ll be careful,” he whispered like a promise.

As if he believed this was love.

As if this was care.

She felt him position himself against her—there—and her entire body went rigid. The pressure was terrifying. Unstoppable. Her voice caught in her throat as she tried to twist away, tried to plead one last time.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, barely audible.

But Silas closed his eyes and murmured, “You’re mine.”

The weight of that word crashed into her harder than his body ever could.

Mine.

Not lover. Not partner. Not girl.

Property.

And then he began to press forward.

As he began in a steady pace his mouth kissed her neck up to her ear that he bit causing her to whine. 

She still managed to push against his large chest but that just tired her out. 

Soon he wrapped her legs around his waist and used the bed as a support with one hand above the side of her head. 

One hand held her thigh as he rutted inside her his speed picking up his breathing heavy and what felt like eternity he came hard, fast and hot. 

His forehead leaned against hers sweaty. His breath ragged but he took a deep breath and kissed her.

The room was still.

The only sound was the soft crackling of the fire, now burning low, casting flickering light across the large bed and the two bodies tangled on it.

Y/N lay beneath him, body trembling, breath shallow and uneven. Her limbs felt foreign—numb and limp, like they no longer belonged to her. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, wide, unfocused, as if her mind had cracked open and spilled out somewhere far away.

Silas hovered above her, forehead pressed to hers, sweat dripping from his temple. His eyes were closed. His expression wasn’t lustful. It wasn’t angry.

It was peaceful.

Like he had just finished building something sacred.

He stayed like that for a long moment, their chests rising and falling out of sync. Then he pulled back and studied her face. Her skin was damp with tears, her lips parted, cheeks flushed with fear and confusion. He reached out and brushed a tear away with his thumb.

“You did so well,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I knew you would. You’re stronger than you think.”

Y/N flinched as his hand cupped her cheek. She wanted to move. To curl away from him. But her body wouldn’t respond.

He didn’t seem to notice her frozen state—or maybe he did and didn’t care.

He shifted gently, lifting her like glass, and began cleaning her with a damp cloth from the bedside table—one he had prepared ahead of time. Every touch was slow. Tender. As if she were a child, or a broken doll.

“You’ll be sore,” he murmured, almost lovingly. “First times are always hard.”

She whimpered.

He kissed her forehead.

“I’ll take care of you. You don’t need to worry about anything anymore. No more school. No more noise. Just me. Just us.”

He tucked the blanket over her bare body, wrapping her tightly like a cocoon, then slid in beside her, one arm curling protectively around her waist.

Y/N didn’t move.

Her eyes stared blankly at the wall. Her mind spun in silence.

And Silas—calm, enormous, utterly in control—whispered against her ear:

“You were made for me. I won’t let the world ruin you.”

@cutelittlesugarfairy @lilyalone @alebrasil0101 @amanduhh1998

[buckybarnesluvr]

Let Me Burn It Out

//Pairing// Eddie Diaz x Fem!Reader

//Summary// After a devastating shift leaves Eddie raw and unraveling, he comes home desperate to feel something

//Word Count// 1.1k

//Warnings// munch!Eddie Diaz, mentions of death, rough sex, angst/emotional distress, explicit sexual content (PIV, orgasm, dirty talk)

The front door slammed so hard it rattled the frame.

You didn’t flinch. Not anymore. You knew that sound—the way it always came on the heels of the worst kind of shift. The kind that left blood on Eddie’s uniform and silence in his soul.

You stayed curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, phone dimming in your hand. The air shifted when he entered. You could feel the storm in his body before you even saw his face.

He didn’t say a word as he tossed his turnout coat to the floor. It landed with a thud, still smelling like smoke and sweat and asphalt. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked through, muscles tense like he was still bracing for a collapse.

“Bad call?” you asked gently.

Eddie didn’t answer. He stood there, chest rising and falling fast, jaw ticking like he was chewing through regret. You saw it in his eyes—the residue of something awful. Something he couldn’t fix. Someone he couldn’t save.

“Eddie…”

That broke him.

“I watched a kid die,” he choked, voice so low you barely caught it. “Held pressure on his chest for ten minutes before I realized it didn’t matter. He was already gone.”

You stood slowly, heart aching. “Come here.”

But he didn’t move. Just shook his head like he was barely holding himself together. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to process it. I don’t want to fucking breathe right now.”

Your eyes met his, and there it was, the need. Twisted up in grief and fury and something else only you ever got to see. The desperate hunger to feel instead of remember.

He took one step toward you. Then another.

By the time he reached you, the heat coming off his body was suffocating. He raised a hand, hesitant at first, then cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I need you,” he whispered, throat tight. “I need to fuck you so hard I forget the sound of that mother’s scream.”

You swallowed hard. Not out of fear—but from the raw honesty bleeding from him.

You grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric over his chest. “Then do it.”

And just like that, the dam broke.

His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and tongue and breathless groans. He gripped your face, your waist, your ass—everywhere at once, like he was trying to mold you into his hands. You clung to him as he walked you backward, stumbling toward the wall, knocking into furniture on the way. Neither of you cared.

The kiss turned messy. Angry. Like he was punishing himself for feeling good. Like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Fuck,” he hissed, dragging your shirt up and over your head. “You always look at me like I’m worth something.”

“You are,” you breathed, barely able to think with the way he was touching you—rough, fast, starving.

He didn’t respond with words. Just shoved your panties down and lifted your leg around his waist, grinding against you through his jeans. You could feel how hard he was already.

“I need to be inside you. Now.”

Then he unzipped, shoved his boxers down just enough, and lined himself up.

And when he thrust into you—deep and unforgiving—you swore you saw heaven behind your eyelids.

The stretch was sharp, borderline brutal, and you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottomed out in one hard thrust. No teasing. No build-up. Just pure, pent-up fire pouring out of him and into you.

“Jesus,” he growled, forehead pressing to yours. “You always take me so fucking well.”

You could barely breathe, let alone speak. He didn’t give you a chance to adjust, just set a punishing pace, thrusting into you like he was trying to bury the pain inside your body instead of his own.

Every movement was desperate. Powerful. Angry. His grip on your hips tightened, fingertips digging in like he wanted to leave a mark—needed proof that he was still here, still alive, still capable of feeling something that wasn’t death and failure.

You moaned his name, voice catching on each thrust. He shoved your other leg up, wrapping both around his waist, pinning you to the wall like you weighed nothing.

“You’re mine,” he hissed, breath hot against your cheek. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, head falling back, fingers tangled in his hair. “Only yours.”

He snapped his hips harder, deeper, hitting that spot that made your whole body seize. His hand slid up, fingers around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself in your pulse.

“Look at me,” he demanded again. “Don’t you fucking look away. I need to see you come.”

You did. You locked eyes with him, even as your body trembled, even as your walls clenched around him, fluttering dangerously close to release.

“I’m gonna—Eddie—”

“Yeah, baby. Come for me. Right now. Let me feel it.”

Your orgasm slammed into you like a wave breaking over rocks—violent, electric, all-consuming. You cried out, hands clawing at his back, your walls pulsing around him with rhythmic, desperate need.

He groaned, loud and broken, losing rhythm as your body milked him. His thrusts turned erratic—deeper, slower, like he was chasing the last flicker of control.

Then he slammed into you once, twice, and stilled.

His release hit with a grunt, buried deep inside you. His whole body shuddered, arms locking tight around you as if you could anchor him to the earth.

You stayed there, clinging to him, your bodies sticky and sweat-soaked, your hearts racing in sync. His head dropped to your shoulder. For the first time since he walked through the door, he exhaled like the weight on his chest had finally cracked.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to be—”

“You weren’t too much,” you interrupted, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “You were just… hurting. And I can take it. All of it.”

He pulled back to look at you, really look at you, and for the first time that night, his eyes weren’t wild. They were soft. Wet. Human.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“You do,” you said. “Every broken, bruised piece of you. You deserve someone who sees all of it and stays.”

His lips found yours again—this time slow. Tender. Grateful.

“I’m not done with you tonight,” he murmured against your mouth. “Not even close.”

Your pulse kicked back up. “Then take me to bed, Diaz.”

He smiled, dark and wicked. “With pleasure.”

[plantsandpies]

I saw your pinned post.

GIVE ME CRACK THEORIES LN SABERTOOTH AND MY LIFE IS YOURS (please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please)

I think the old Sabertooth master just picked up kids. Like fairytail had kids, but they found fairy tail. I think that one day, he just walked through the woods and picked up Sting and Rouge. I’m convinced he just picked up kids and brought them back to the guild. I have no proof for this, but I don’t think Sting and Rouge were in the woods for that long and they were only part of sabertooth. I also don’t think anyone would actively seek it out. Just based on the names. Like fairy tail, lamia scale, and then sabertooth? That’s a harsher name and I don’t think kids are going to pick sabertooth that’s run by a big angry guy with a scary scare over going to like Pegasus or something. So I think that guy just walks the streets and picks up random kids.

(An evil thought to this is that he chose kids so he could make sure they were the strongest, but that’s a sad thought).

[maskedbyghost]

cw: manipulation, possessive reader, suggestive language

You told him you didn’t do casual.

You didn’t make it a big deal. You just said it like you meant it, not trying to sound dramatic or emotional about it. Just honest.

“I don’t do casual,” you said, eyes on your drink. “It always ends up messy, and I’m not built for that.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s alright,” he said eventually. “I’m not looking for anything serious.”

You nodded. No reaction on your face, no shift in tone. “Then we can just be friends.”

He raised an eyebrow like he was trying to figure you out. “You sure?”

You smiled a little. “Yeah. I like hanging out with you. We don’t have to fuck.”

“…Alright,” he said, after a pause. “Friends.”

And that was the start.

Except friends don’t show up to his gym when he’s meeting a girl for a workout date.

Friends don’t slip him a text during his Tinder dinner like,

“you left your hoodie here again. i’m wearing it. smells like you.”

Friends don’t show up to the pub when he’s got plans with someone, all dolled up like you just rolled out of a damn music video, giving his date a once-over and offering a tight smile that says run, babe.

You’d always act surprised when things didn’t work out. “Oh no, she ghosted you? That’s so weird.”

And Simon? He wasn’t completely oblivious. But he was tired, and lonely, and honestly kind of lazy when it came to trying to figure women out, and you were just so easy to be around, so warm and funny and low-maintenance and somehow always around when he needed someone.

So when he started seeing you more than anyone else, it didn’t feel weird. It felt right.

He told himself it was just friendship.

Even when you leaned against him on the couch. Even when you started sleeping over. Even when he started feeling a little sick thinking about you with anyone else.

The night it finally changed, he had just come back from a shit deployment — nothing too dangerous, just long and annoying and cold, and you’d been waiting at his place (with your own key, because somehow that had happened), and you were in his clothes, curled up in his bed with takeout, and when he saw you like that he just… stopped thinking.

“You’re perfect for me,” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself.

You blinked, looking up from your phone. “What?”

“I was so fucking stupid,” he muttered, dropping his bag, walking toward you like something magnetic was pulling him in. “I didn’t see it. I don’t know why.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him for a second, then smiled, slow and easy, like you’d been waiting for him to finally figure it out, like none of it really surprised you, but you were still happy to hear it out loud.

From there, it was easy.

The relationship happened fast. Slipped into place like it had always been there. He’d gone from “I don’t do serious” to leaving his toothbrush at your place, to falling asleep with his face buried in your neck, to holding your hand in public without even realizing he was doing it.

He was happy. Stupidly happy. The kind that made his friends suspicious and his coworkers tease him. The kind that made you look like the hero of some cozy domestic fantasy where nothing ever goes wrong and love is enough.

It wasn’t one big moment. It was a bunch of little ones that slowly added up until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Like how you always just showed up when he had plans, how his phone would buzz with a text from you right before he left for a date. Or how you’d casually mention how certain girls “weren’t his type,” even when he never brought them up to you.

And then one day, while you were going through an old playlist together, you said, “God, I remember this song. I used to listen to it every time I thought about you with someone else.” And you didn’t even blink after saying it.

And the more he thinks about it, the more it starts adding up.

You’d played him. You’d baited him.

And now he’s sitting on the couch, watching you walk into the room in one of his old T-shirts, holding a bowl of snacks, looking like home, and he honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh or be pissed off or bend you over the arm of the sofa and remind you who he is.

You plop into his lap like you do it every day (because you do), nestling in like you’re settling into your rightful throne, and he wraps his arms around your waist automatically, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“You know what I realized today?” he asks, voice low.

You hum. “What?”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking it through. “We’re together because you manipulated me.”

You pause for like… half a second. Then?

“Yeah,” you say, nonchalant. “And?”

He squints at you, mouth twitching like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown. “You sabotaged every girl I tried to hook up with.”

“I did,” you say, and lean forward to grab the remote. “Most of them were trash anyway.”

“You tricked me into thinking you weren’t interested.”

“Mhm.” You don’t even look at him. “Worked, didn’t it?”

There’s this long silence, and then Simon groans and lets his head fall back on the couch dramatically.

“I should be mad,” he mutters.

“You’re not,” you say, smiling down at him like he’s your prize. “You love me.”

“Fuck, woman,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours. “That turns me on.”

You grin, shifting your weight so you’re straddling him properly, hands sliding up his chest slowly until your fingers curl around the back of his neck. You squeeze—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.

“You belong to me,” you whisper against his ear. “Always have.”

He shivers. Actually shivers.

“…Jesus.”

You kiss his jaw, slow and smug. “Say it.”

“…Yours.”

“Good boy.”

And yeah. He is.

PART 2

----------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[emizsc]

timeskip!kenma kozume x fem!reader

notes: married— established rs, this feels so ooc i apologize, y/n used a couple times, actual streaming terms used(willing to explain them if needed!!), fluff, kuroo mention, lowercase intended!

“38 minute and 42 second compilation of kodzuken being whipped for his wife.”

this is the seventh part of the series created by this fan. the first part of the series was titled, “15 minute compilation of pro gamer kodzuken talking about his girlfriend.” the fourth part was the change from girlfriend to fiancée, and the sixth part was the change from fiancée to wife.

this youtube series has blown up everywhere— to the point some people don’t even know kenma as the CEO of Bouncing Ball Corporation or as a professional gamer/youtuber.

kuroo had been talking to his colleague about kenma once, when highschool was suddenly their topic of conversation. “ever heard of kodzuken?” “your best friend is the dude who doesn’t shut up about his wife?!” kuroo couldn’t even tease kenma about it anymore— kenma just was so shameless when it came to you! (and before he got famous all the yapping about you was always to kuroo. trust me, he’d recieve earfuls about you when you weren’t even together yet.)

after every valorant or league tournament (ewwwww) whether it was a win or loss, once the mic was brought to him to ask about the game, he’d state simply, “I’d like to thank my wife. Good games.” god he’d be even more annoying when it came to a solo queue in valorant. his go-to insult for a snobby teenager would be, “you’re bitchless AND jobless.” safe to say his ego inflates when they realize they’re talking to THE kodzuken, and if they didn’t know beforehand, they’ll know him soon enough when his motor of a mouth warms up to talk about his wife, forgetting to ever brief on the topic of having multiple jobs with high incomes.

oh but the comments on the series were always the best.

user @applepie: may this love attack me

user @kodzusss: y/n how do you find a man like this

user @makemestays: aura farming again

user @svteenm: i think i know more about y/n than i do about kenma at this point

user @moalways: he’s the standard i fear

user @emizszc: laying on the highway as we speak

user @sunaslefttoe: I WANT WHAT THEY HAVE!!!!

if you add up the time of all seven videos, the total time is pushing 5 hours… god he just can’t shutup about you. all the little emoticons for his channel; raids, copium, NT, are just you and him. every sub challenge just surrounds you. just to name a few, there was

“xx subs for a cooking stream with my wife”

“xx subs and my wife will play a ranked valo game”

“xx subs for a just chatting stream with my wife”

even when he had to switch gears. as a CEO, his management team was sick and tired of him. today he had been invited for an interview. he knew the interview show was scuffed prior to coming, so he decided to just do what he was best at. …talk about you of course!

“so, if it ever came down to choosing between your wife or your company, what’d you choose?”

“my wife.” he puts up his pointer finger before speaking again, “actually, she was one of my main motivations to start working on the … blah blah … and she really … blah blahhh blah … my career … blah” the interviewer felt a bead of sweat drop from her temple.

sigh kenma is so in love with his wife.

part two and three of my mini kenma series here!!

[atlabeth]

bend an ear

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: your boyfriend doesn't listen to you. good thing your friendly neighborhood spider-man does.

a/n: there's just something about him idk. andrew garfield spidey bc of course! look at him! this came from me playing the spider-man game after it went on sale and yearning for peter parker (will prob have to rewatch the movies bc of this) anyways hope you like it

wc: 3.6k

warning(s): reader's bf is shitty -- they argue for a while and he lowkey slut shames her. but this is basically all fluff otherwise bc childhood best friends to lovers babby!!! real yearning loverboy hours!!!

Peter just wants to go home. 

It’s been… a day. He got his ass kicked by an English test (he doesn’t have time to do the readings when he’s fighting crime), got his ass kicked by Flash Thompson (it’s not like he can fight back with his super strength and pulverize his ribs), and has spent every second since his final class ended fighting petty crimes around the city. 

Stopping ATM thefts and minor muggings feels good, sure, but on days like these, it doesn’t really make up for failing intro literature classes and getting absolutely zero sleep. He’s just thankful May is still letting him live with her while he studies at ESU—if he had to do all of this in addition to trying to make his rent? He doesn’t really want to think about it. 

So he swung his way to the roof of some random building, and he’s taking a break. Sue him, but Peter thinks he deserves it. What’s the point of living in a city like New York if you can’t have a second to yourself every once in a while? 

He’ll go home soon. Grab a bodega sandwich, maybe stop another crime, and then get home for some much needed rest. But for now, he’s just going to sit on this rooftop and relax for a second. Even Spider-man needs some peace and— 

“Babe—” 

“Why are you following me?”

Peter winces as the door slams open, an argument following close after as a girl storms out onto the roof followed by a guy speeding to keep up with her. His first instinct is to swing away as soon as possible, but for some reason, he stays. 

“Because I want to talk!”

“God, do you even hear yourself?” 

“You keep talking over me, so I really—” 

“You don’t get to babe me right now!” 

As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, now he’s accidentally made himself privy to some couple’s dispute. He’s about to web himself out of this third wheeling nightmare when the girl turns around with a groan, revealing her face, and Peter realizes who it is. 

It’s you.

This is your apartment complex. Peter came here without even realizing it, but can he really be surprised? Your name is synonymous with peace in his brain. Comes with the territory of being friends for so long—it still calms him, even when you’re being the opposite of peaceful. 

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this!” the guy exclaims, frustration clear in his voice. 

Of course. Why wouldn’t your shitty boyfriend be here too? The only reason you live here is because you scored this place together; said he didn’t want you living on campus anymore. Ethan Frey might be the bane of Peter’s existence after two and a half years of him being your boyfriend. 

“Because you and your posse are acting like complete jags in front of all my friends!” you shout back. 

He laughs in disbelief. “I’m just being myself, babe. Besides, you’re the one who said I could invite them!” 

“Because you complained about it just being my friends,” you grind out. “You weren’t even supposed to be here, Ethan! You just can’t handle the thought of me being around guys that aren’t you!” 

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, huh?” He gestures wildly. “You spend every second with that geek and I’m supposed to believe you’re not into him?” 

And now he’s eavesdropping on a conversation between you and your boyfriend about him. How could this get worse? 

“God, it isn’t like that at all!” you exclaim with a mirthless laugh. “Peter is my friend— my best friend since elementary school. You knew when we got together that wasn’t going to change.” 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding lazily, “but that was before I knew how obvious his hard-on for you was.” 

Peter feels his face heat beneath the mask, wants to wipe the sweat off his palms. That’s how it could get worse. 

Your nostrils flare as you turn away, your hands flexing while you shake your head. “Get out of here, Ethan.” 

“Oh, of course that’s where you draw the line,” Ethan mocks. “When I bring up fuckin’ Peter Parker.” He pauses then chuckles. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

Peter nearly intervenes right then and there, wanting to stop this mess before Ethan does anything to hurt you. But revealing himself sounds like the worst possible thing to do, so for once he listens to the rational part of his brain over the emotional. 

“He’s not even here!” you retort. “I live with you, not him. I’m dating you, not him. Why are you bringing him up?” 

“Because I’m not blind.” Ethan crosses his arms. “Y’know, I thought you’d get over this little thing after you let me take you out, but for some reason, it’s exactly the same. I swear you spend more time with him than me.”

Your hands clench into fists. “Get out of here.” 

He scoffs. “You want me to leave you up here?” 

“Yes,” you nod. 

“God, you’ve been acting crazy this whole night!” he complains. “You’ll freeze up here. Just get over it—we’ll go back down, I’ll get you a beer—” 

“I hate beer.” 

“Then I’ll get you a fucking apple juice,” he spits. “Just stop being so dramatic.” 

“You’re not listening to me!” you shout. “I want you to leave me alone!” 

This time he says your name, and you shake your head. 

“Go back to the apartment,” you interrupt. “Because if I have to spend another second with you, our relationship might not make it through the night.”

For once, Ethan is silent as he stares at you. You stare back with no sign of giving up. Eventually, he just huffs and shakes his head. 

“Whatever.” He starts walking towards the door. “You better cool off up here, because I’m not dealing with this shit when you come back down.” 

You stare at the door for a good twenty seconds once he closes the door—slams it, rather—before you angrily kick a stray soda can. Your childhood days of rec soccer must still be in you, because you get an arc on it. Just before it can go over the side of the building, Peter shoots a web to catch it wholly on instinct. 

Your eyes widen as you dart around, and Peter is finally spotted from his place on top of the roof door building thing. What is that even called? He doesn’t really have time to think about it. The aluminum can crunches as it flies into his hand, and you stare at him in complete shock. 

“Uh,” his mouth suddenly feels very dry, but he has to make some excuse for why he’s up here, “littering is bad.” 

Good one, Parker. 

“You’re Spider-man,” you say, eyes still wide. 

“The one and only,” he nods. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble, finally seeming to break out of your shock as you cover your mouth and turn away. “Oh my god, Spider-man just heard my relationship falling apart.” 

“I didn’t hear anything!” Peter exclaims. “I—”

You shoot him the withering look he loves so much, that was able to get his bullies to shrink on the spot in high school—it feels weird being on the receiving end of it. 

“I’m not stupid,” you say. 

“I kn—” He has to stop himself from saying I know, because realistically Spider-man has no idea who you are. “I’m sorry.” 

You huff and cross your arms. “Do your superhero duties include eavesdropping on failing couples?” 

“It was an accident,” Peter says. “I was up here before you were. So technically, you were eavesdropping on my actual superhero duties.” 

You laugh, and he smiles just at the sound of it. One benefit to wearing the mask, because it would expose him right on the spot. “Oh yeah? And what are those?” 

“Patrolling the streets,” he says. “I’ve got a very good vantage point from up here.” 

You hum, your mood turning a bit more morose as you glance away. “Well, I’m sorry you had to hear all that during your patrol.” 

“I’m sorry you had to go through it,” he says. “Your boyfriend sounds like an asshole.” 

You roll your eyes. “He’s fine, most of the time. Just had a little bit too much to drink.” 

Peter will never understand why you defend Ethan so much. You’ve been together since freshman year and he’s only gotten worse since then—maybe he hides how he is around you, because he hasn’t really shied away from showing Peter how much he hates him this past year.

“He looked pretty sober to me,” Peter says. “And trust me, I have plenty of experience fighting guys that have had too much to drink.” 

You huff. “What are you, a spider-therapist?” 

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says. “And I’m always good for bending an ear.”

“Surely you have better things to do than listen to me complain.” 

Peter shakes his head. “My schedule’s pretty clear right now, actually.”

“Really?” you marvel. “There’s no crime in New York City at,” you check your watch, “11:37 pm?”

“Absolutely none,” he says. “I solved it all. At least for now.”

You laugh again at that and gesture with your head as you walk over to the edge of the roof. “Then I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Peter jumps down and follows you over. You hoist yourself on top of the wall, legs dangling over the edge, and he feels himself frown as he leans his back against the wall and looks up at you. 

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” 

“You’ll catch me if I fall,” you say. 

“Obviously,” Peter says. “I’m supposed to encourage safe behavior in New Yorkers, though.” 

You laugh and tilt your head up towards the night sky. The moonlight reflects in your eyes and Peter knows he could get lost in them forever. “Just this once, then.” 

“I think I can let it slide.” 

“Good.” 

A comfortable beat of silence passes between the two of you, and Peter finds himself smiling. No wonder he ended up at your place out of instinct. There’s nothing else like your company. 

“I always think it’ll be different,” you murmur. Peter glances up at you, your expression shifted to something more melancholic. “We’ll have a good day, which’ll turn into a good week and a good month, but he always does something to mess it up. It’s like it’s in his DNA.” 

He stays silent as you think. Most of the time when you rant to Peter, you just want to be heard, not given advice. At this point, he’s an expert at listening to you. It’s not like he minds. 

“I want things to work out. I— I still love him. I mean, I think I do. But everything is a fucking struggle with him. If I don’t do things the exact way he wants, if I try to do something for me instead of him, if I can’t read his fucking mind, then he loses it and we argue. And I’m so fucking tired of arguing!” 

Your voice has risen by now, and you bite down hard on your cheek. Peter doesn’t realize he’s started reaching towards you to comfort you until you look back down at him, and he runs his hand over his head in an effort to cover it up. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I promise, I’m a much nicer person than this. You just caught me at the worst time.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I know.”

Your brows rise. “Spider-man knows I’m a nice person?”

“I can just tell,” he rushes, trying to save himself. He’s doing a real good job at not revealing his identity. “I’m good at reading people.”

You chuckle and shake your head, then adjust your position so your back is towards the open air. It makes Peter nervous, he can’t lie, but it’s not like he’s not a superhero. 

“So, spider-therapist,” you say. “Any advice?” 

So this is one of the rare times you do want answers. Peter wonders if you’ll leave your boyfriend if Spider-man tells you to. 

“He doesn’t sound great,” Peter says, inclining his head. “How many times have you argued this week?” 

“Four,” you say. “Five, if you include tonight.” 

He whistles. “And it’s only Wednesday.”

You tip your shoulder. “We’re efficient.” 

“And unhappy, it sounds like.” 

“We’re not unhappy,” you defend. “We’re just…” 

“You’re up here talking to me instead of down there with him,” Peter says wryly. “That doesn’t exactly scream ‘happy couple’.” 

You shake your head with another sigh. “It’s because he can’t get over Peter.” 

He tries to act as nonchalant as possible when you bring him up. Is this an invasion of privacy? Letting you talk to him about all this when you have no idea who Spider-man actually is? 

Instead of floundering over moral qualms, he just clears his throat. “And who’s he?” 

“My best friend,” you say. “The one person who’s been by my side since the second I moved to New York. He means everything to me.”

Peter feels his heart skip a beat. “Yeah?” 

“He’s like— like the opposite of Ethan, and it’s wonderful. I guess that’s why Pete irks him so much. Y’know,” you pull out your phone and start typing in your password, “maybe I should call him. He always knows what to say.” 

“No!” Peter exclaims with a bit too much force, causing you to give him a look. “No— I mean, it’s late. He’s probably asleep. And— and it’s a school night?” 

You tilt your head, and Peter exhales when it seems to work. “True. He’s probably studying for that biochem test.” You grimace. “I should be doing that too.” 

He watches you type out a few texts and send them, and Peter’s never been more thankful to have his phone on silent. What a way that would be to blow his cover. 

You shove your phone back in your pocket with another sigh. “I just hate that my boyfriend and my best friend don’t get along. I love them both—why can’t they like each other?” 

“I mean…” Peter trails off when you look at him, and he gestures with his head. “It seems pretty obvious why they don’t get along.” 

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “Because Ethan thinks Peter likes me, and he probably thinks I have some secret crush on him too. I swear, he’s always looking for a reason to fight.” 

God, could the universe be calling him out any more? It’s honestly ridiculous how this is going. 

“Do you?” Peter asks, because he can’t help himself. “Like him, I mean.” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I love Pete, I do. It’s always been the two of us no matter what. But I…”

He holds his breath as he tries not to look at you, tries not to make it too obvious that he might have stumbled his way into his simultaneous dream and nightmare scenario. 

He’s had a crush on you for what feels like forever. Since you stood up for him against his bullies in elementary school, honestly, and it’s only grown over the years as the two of you have grown. From recesses spent together and bike rides through the city; spending the night in Peter’s apartment because it was easier for your sister to let it happen than try and drag you back home; endless nights with heads bent over textbooks trying to study for tests, over college applications trying to get into the same place, and now studying and researching near every damn weekend together because you’re both unfortunate enough to try for ESU STEM degrees. 

You were there when Ben died. He’s there on every anniversary of your parents’ accident. Without knowing it, you were there when he got bit and his whole life turned upside down. 

You and Peter have been there every step of the way for each other, and it’s why he’s content with just friendship—Peter wants you in his life no matter what. But he can’t lie and say he doesn’t hope. 

No, actually. He yearns. He’s doomed to be a yearner for the rest of his life because he’ll never stop loving you. How could he? 

“I’m not sure,” you finally say with a sigh. “All I know is that I’d rather be with Pete tonight than Ethan.”

Peter wonders if your chest compressions are still as good as they were in high school, because he feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. 

You’d rather be spending tonight with him than your boyfriend of two years and seven months, and Peter isn’t even supposed to know. 

You mistake his silent freakout for nonchalance, and you clear your throat as you jump back onto solid ground. 

“Well, I’ve spilled my soul to you,” you say wryly, crossing your arms. “Anything a superhero can spill in return?”

Peter thinks for a good, long second. His hands itch to take off his mask, to do what he’s wanted to do since he got bitten by that stupid spider and show you who he really is. 

How many times has he been a total asshole, canceling plans on you because he had to go stop some supervillain from wreaking havoc in Times Square? How many times has he been late to something important to you because he was caught up stopping dime a dozen muggings? He still remembers the look on your face when he showed up just in time to miss the entirety of Les Mis’s opening night with your first lead role. 

You were a better best friend to Peter than he was to you because of this stupid mask. If he took it off, it wouldn’t make every mistake fade away, but it would sure help explain some of it. 

But Peter has been doing this since high school, and he has seen far too many times what happens to the loved ones of heroes. They’re used as leverage, used for ransom, sometimes just straight up killed.

You’ve been friends with Peter since you and your sister moved into the apartment next to May’s thirteen years ago. It doesn’t matter if you never share Peter’s feelings. You’re one of the only constants in his life, and he’s not going to lose you because he’s too selfish to keep a secret. 

Losing you would be the last straw. He couldn’t take it. 

So Peter pushes all thoughts of secret identities revealed out of his mind and tries to chuckle convincingly. 

“I’m allergic to peppermint, believe it or not.” 

You stare at him, deadpan. “That’s nowhere close to all the shit I just gave you.” 

“It’s true!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “Happened after I got bit by the spider. They’re repelled by peppermint oil, and I guess I am too.” 

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Spider-man is a coward.” 

“A superhero’s gotta have some secrets,” he says, and he taps the side of his head. “Otherwise this thing doesn’t do much good.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Whatever.” 

A chill suddenly goes up Peter’s spine and he whips around—he can hear a distant scream followed by a distant gunshot, and he mentally curses. 

“Duty calls?” you ask, drawing his attention back to you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t be.” You smile, and it’s genuine. A nice change from the state Ethan effortlessly puts you in. “You went out of your way to cheer me up. Pretty super of you.” 

“I hope it makes up for the eavesdropping,” he says. 

“More than,” you nod. “Now get out of here. Your city needs you.” 

Peter nods too, and he backflips onto his original spot. “Have a good night. You’re real special to somebody.” 

He’s gone before you can say anything else, already zipping across the rooftops to get to the scene of the crime. Peter can only think of your face as he swings through the air—all the things he’s too scared to say to you. 

The crime, which turns out to be yet another petty theft, is resolved easily enough with some punches, kicks, and a snappy one-liner. Once he’s retrieved the woman’s purse and alerted the police, he’s back in the sky. 

Peter only stops once he’s swung a couple miles away, perching on the edge of some rooftop for some actual peace and quiet. He checks around once or twice to make sure he’s not somehow back at your place, and when he’s sure it’s all clear, he pulls his phone out. He swipes past all the notifications he’s racked up until he finds the one he’s looking for: the texts from you. 

hey pete, I know you’re prob asleep rn but you were right. I really need to study for that test lol

wanna meet me at the library tomorrow after QM? I’ll buy the coffee this time i promise <3 

as long as you use your roomie’s dining dollars to get me a croissant lol 

Peter can’t help but smile, larger than anything tonight. This is why he’s okay with being nothing but your friend for the rest of his life. 

Deal. Anything to get you an A 

lol

asshole 

Never 

Try to get some sleep. No good studying on a tired brain 

Three dots appear for a good long second, enough to constitute a decent paragraph—then they disappear. In its place: 

I’ll try just for you 

night boy genius

(How could he not love you?) 

Night, girl wonder

[anashins]

Pairing: lawyer!Jaehyun x divorcée!reader

Genre: age gap, drama, romance, smut

Word Count: 24k

Summary: Jaehyun has a ruthless, cruel and not so legal way of getting his clients everything they want out of their divorce. After all, to do the job right, a lawyer like him is not supposed to believe something like 'love' exists in the first place. That is until he meets his next client who also has a not so legal way of creeping right into his heart and make him question all his morals.

A/N: Man, I miss Jaehyun :( D-541

“I want to divorce my husband.”

Jaehyun hadn’t spared you, the young woman who had been following him since the lobby, a single glance, purposefully ignoring every word you were trying to direct at him as he walked hurriedly and steadily to the elevators. 

He was already running late that morning thanks to a fight with the parking attendant since apparently, his permission for the parkade had run out last night. And now, an annoying woman blocking the elevator doors after he had gotten in and hindering Jaehyun from reaching his office’s floor was a bit of a stretch at this ungodly hour. Eventually, he couldn’t ignore your existence anymore. 

“Move,” he demanded, annoyed.

“I won’t,” you objected.

Pressing the ‘close’-button over and over again, Jaehyun rolled his eyes at your perseverance as not even the heavy doors hitting your arms could chase you away. He stared at you, observing the persistence mirrored in your eyes as you pushed the doors aside again. He silently gave you credit for that.

“I want to divorce my husband,” you said again. “And I need you to successfully do so!”

Jaehyun let his eyes wander as you had piqued his interest ultimately. Your stubborn spirit reminded him a little bit of himself. But only a little bit. He examined you thoroughly. You were dressed elegantly in a pencil skirt, blouse and high heels. No wrinkles in your clothes, hair tidily pulled out of your face, not a strand out of order. You dressed like the average woman approaching him for his help: trophy wives in their thirties up to fifties, trapped in a marriage that was falling apart for always one and the same reason,

the lack of love.

In these kinds of marriages, mutual love rarely existed anymore. It was the same pattern again and again: The woman went blindly and head over heels in love into the marriage and throughout time, got frustrated with their lives as their marriage turned out entirely different from what they had imagined. The husband was almost never at home, business was always more important, and rarely did a case not involve cheating. 

A person who had once been a naive woman in love had usually changed into a vengeful wife who wanted to take her husband to the cleaners by the time they consulted Jaehyun’s law firm. After all, they didn’t believe in love anymore, and that was why his job was so easy, and even a little bit of fun.

But there was one difference that made you stand out significantly from all of his past clients, Jaehyun silently remarked to himself as his gaze stopped on your face: You were young. So, so young.

“Divorce your husband?” he repeated your words. “Aren’t you too young to be married for long enough yet?”

Your expression darkened, but he took it as a challenge. It wouldn’t be the first time he clashed with a potential client. As a matter of fact, it wouldn’t be a successful case for him if his client wouldn’t start hating him at some point - and then preaching him to the heavens when he got them all they had asked for in the process, and more.

“Do you want this case or not?” you retorted. “I promise, you won’t regret it.”

Jaehyun raised a brow. Straightforward and witty. He hadn’t expected that from an early twenty-something. Perhaps, he should pay weight to your words, the fact that he wouldn’t regret it. Judging by your age alone, there was surely more to the story, and he was curious to get under the surface of it all.

Jaehyun removed his hand from the ‘close’-button while simultaneously a moment of relief flashed through his face - along with a grin. 

The door stayed open as he asked, “How long have you been married for?”

“Two and a half years.”

That was nothing.

“Is there a prenup?”

“Yes.”

As always.

“What’s your husband’s name?”

You hesitated.

In a lot of cases, Jaehyun knew his client’s spouses just by their name. Wives of CEOs, chairmen, actors, doctors, politicians, investors … they all came to him.

“Kang Seungmin.”

Jaehyun almost visibly took in an exasperated breather.

“Kang Seungmin who is related to the Aewha Group?”

You nodded. “His older brother is the CEO.”

Pause.

“Be here tomorrow, 8am.”

____

You remembered the day you got married like it was yesterday. 

You weren’t wearing your dream wedding dress. 

Your dress was a designer that your husband’s mother had picked out. It had been too voluminous, too heavy, and it hadn’t suited your style at all. Your makeup had made it hard for you to recognize yourself and they had put too many extensions in your hair. But that was what they had wanted you to look like - and you had complied.

It wasn’t your dream wedding venue. 

It had taken place at the Shilla Hotel and you hadn’t had any say in the decoration, it was all white and beige when you had wanted sprinkles of purple, your favorite color. The cake was vanilla flavored when you had wanted blueberry, and the program had involved a choir, not a band. But that was what they had wanted the reception to be like - and you had complied.

Your friends and family weren’t there. 

You hadn’t known a single person at the wedding except for your future husband’s family. When you had been sitting there, feeling lonely and left out, there was no one you could have turned to, no familiar and friendly face. Your guests were all only business partners and your new family’s friends - and you had complied.

You had never felt so lonely in your life like on the day that was supposed to be the happiest day of your life. But you had complied with everything, because you had been so, so in love.

And what was left of that now?

“So, Mrs. Kang,” Mr. Jeong started the next morning after you had appeared in front of his office at 8am sharp. “After you have filled out all the information about you and your husband, I just want to know one thing…”

“Which is…?”

You hoped he didn’t notice how you kept your shaking legs in place with your palms pressing on top of your thighs. You knew exactly what was coming and you were prepared for that, but it always made you nervous, regardless of how many times someone would bring this topic up. And it happened almost every time.

“What is it that you’re after?”

You were confused. That wasn’t what you had expected. “Pardon me?”

The lawyer took off his glasses with which he had previously read through your information carefully and put them next to him on the desk. Then, he propped his elbows against the table and leaned in to you. It was very intimidating as if he wanted to look straight into your soul to detect every lie that could possibly pass your lips.

But there was nothing for you to lie about.

“What do you want out of this marriage, Mrs. Kang?” he carefully elaborated. “Money? The house? Company shares? I can get you everything.”

“In all honesty, Mr. Jeong,” you admitted, “I don’t want any of his money, belongings, mansions and company shares. I just want to get out of this marriage and never be involved with this family again. That’s all I want.”

He let out a long sigh and closed the file with your information.

“Are you… done?” you asked.

“Yes. With you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t want anything? No money, no mansions, no company shares? Then, where is the thrill? What do you need me for?” The lawyer leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms behind his head. “I think it’s better for you to look for another lawyer.”

“His material possessions were not the reason I was trying to find consultation with you.” You stayed calm and didn’t want to get irritated by his change in demeanor. “I grew up wealthy already, Mr. Jeong. I’m not dependent on his money. When I turned eighteen, I inherited the trust fund my parents had opened up for me the day I was born. It’s enough to live comfortably until… well, the end of my days.”

“So, you are two wealthy people who have married and you don’t want to take anything from him just out of spite. According to the law, the trust fund still rightfully belongs to you as it had been handed over to you prior to your marriage.” If he was confused by your statement, then he didn’t let it slip. “So, what is it that makes divorcing him so difficult then, Mrs. Kang? What is it that you’re after, exactly? I know there is something after all.”

“It’s not what I’m after. It’s what he is after.” You reached down to your bag, pulling out a file that you then attentively placed on the lawyer’s desk. “Here is a copy of my prenup. Please open page 35. I highlighted the most important parts.”

He put back on his glasses and opened the documents at the respective page. You visibly saw his brows furrow at the paragraph that you had pointed out.

“So, it’s the other way around. In case of a divorce, it’s not him who will lose everything,” the lawyer concluded. “But you will lose everything, and it will be all transcribed to him. Your trust fund money, your possessions, everything from before your marriage even…” He stilled. “Just… everything.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Kang, but…” He looked at you in utter disbelief. And the worst thing was that you couldn’t even blame him. You were very ashamed of yourself, too. “How could you have even signed this in the first place? I have never seen a prenup like this in my entire career. But then again, I've only been practicing in my own law firm for a short few years….”

He was straightforward with a certain sharpness lying on his tongue that tended to take a derogatory way at times. This lawyer had surely seen so much already, but according to his words, this must just be an entire new level of naiveness he hadn’t encountered ever before.

“I was young and in love.” 

There was certainly no other explanation you wanted to give him yet, even though he was looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to elaborate the decision and specifically the situation you had been in when signing this agreement. But again, you had to disappoint him. You would have still signed the papers if the circumstances had been different, you were certain of that. Why would it matter if you left out an additional reason?

The lawyer let out a long sigh. It was like you could hear his thoughts in your own mind: Such a naive, stupid girl, getting married so young and signing away all her rights just to be with a powerful man forever, out of blinded love. You endured it like so many other things in your life.

“Love.” He snorted, confirming your thoughts, and closed the marriage contract with a thud. “It’s absolutely good for nothing. You clients prove it to me every time.”

You tilted your head. “Just because I’m getting divorced doesn’t mean I don’t believe in love anymore, Mr. Jeong. Those are two very different things.”

“I’m aware of the fact that my clients almost all get married out of love like you,” he corrected himself strictly and made his standpoint clear to you. “Now, wanting a divorce from the person who you once had such strong feelings for… how can you still believe in something that has failed you so thoroughly?”

“But love hasn’t failed me,” you objected. “It’s the person who failed me. And just because that certain man has let me down, doesn’t mean someone else will, too. There is not only one person in the world to love. I’m not going to say I hate all men and will never meet someone I can open myself up to again, Mr. Jeong. I suppose that’s what the majority of people who come here say to you, am I right? But I won’t. There are people in their fifties finding love all over again, so if I have to wait another thirty years just to experience the same, I will willingly do so. I will never give up hope, I won’t let spite devour me whole. I will wait for my time to come.”

He had fallen into silence and his gaze was impenetrable while you kept talking and eventually came to an end. The Lawyer was either baffled by your naivete once again, or you had sincerely taken him by surprise and the usually so witty man for once, since your meeting, didn’t know what to reply.

“You’re so full of positivity, Mrs. Kang, it almost makes me feel sick. Where is your anger, your vengefulness?” he eventually responded, and you felt a wave of disappointment wash over you. “But since you don’t seem to have my clients’ usual bitterness and grimness to drive by, we will rely on your insolent positivity to win this case. Or stupidness, depending on how you view your case.”

You had never been so subtly attacked and complimented at the same time, but since it was coming from the ruthless attorney himself, you put more weight on the latter. “Whatever works for me, I guess.”

He folded his forearms on the table and leaned forward, closer to you, narrowing his eyes before he almost whispered, “But there is one thing I always demand from my clients to win a case and my trust eventually. Without this certain thing, you will lose both.”

You inhaled deeply in expectation. “And that is…?”

“The entire truth.” The response was so simple, but you sensed there was more depth in it. “If I ask you something, you’re going to tell me the truth. You cannot conceal or hide anything. There cannot be a detail that you consider too irrelevant or something that you consider too embarrassing to tell me. You will tell me everything I ask for and not ask for, are we clear?”

At this moment, you felt like he was staring right into your soul, marking this a make it or break it point for your business relationship. If you lied, would he be able to detect right away? Or was he bluffing and only wanted to intimidate you? Had he already sensed that you had left out an important aspect in your marriage?

“We are very much clear.”

A grin flashed across his face, making you frown. “Very well. Then I need you to do the exact opposite.” 

“The opposite? Then… I should lie?”

“Exactly. And please don’t hit me with the ‘I cannot lie, I’m a sincere person, I cannot hurt someone’ bullshit. We don’t do that here. In order to win what you want, you have to play dirty. Be honest with me, but when I need you to lie and do reprehensible things, you have to comply. Do you think you can do this, little miss sunshine? Or are we way too sincere and positive for that?”

“I’m sorry, if you mean playing dirty do yo-”

“Can you do that?” he interrupted you. “This is the only thing I need to know. Can you play dirty when I need you to?”

This shouldn’t surprise you. Deep down, you had always known what kind of lawyer he was. Everyone knew. That was why you had eventually seeked out for him. You couldn’t win this case on your own or with any lawyer, it had to be him. You had tried so hard and had approached not only attorneys in this city, but all over the country - to no avail.

This lawyer was your last resort, and never had you thought you would go this far. But if you had to lie and play dirty if asked to break free from your golden cage, then that was what you were going to do.

If you had to play dirty to see your family again, then you would do so.

You gulped, but still brought out, “I can do that.”

Even though it came reluctantly, he still believed you and said with a satisfied smile, “Very well, ma’am.”

_____

“So, this is the golden cage that you’re always referring to.” Your lawyer stood in the lobby, inspecting the entrance location. “Interesting.”

It was an odd sight for you - to have your divorce lawyer, who was technically still a stranger even after meeting a few times in his firm, in the home that you were sharing with your husband. But then again, in these two and a half years here together, your house had always been filled with only strangers and people you weren’t fond of, so this wasn’t quite a new experience.

Your home was a multistory penthouse in a high rise building in one the city’s wealthiest neighborhood, because another quarter was a degradation for your husband’s family’s status. It was all too modernly and minimalistically designed with no touch of personal memories in the form of pictures or belongings. The furniture was too clean, the art too abstract, the rooms too empty. It had always felt more like a museum rather than a home for you - grand, impressive and utterly overwhelming.

You had spent days endlessly wandering between the floors and looking out of the gigantic window across the river out of which one side of the penthouse was entirely crafted, spanning over two levels. This was the only thing you liked about your home as it was easier to dream yourself away while watching the sunset. Many times, you had imagined living on the other side of the river, too. Where it wasn’t all filled with stuck up millionaires, people too focused on changing their appearances and overall shallowness.

You had tried so hard to connect with this life, but even though you had grown up wealthily on this side of the river as well, there was one thing you were missing but had been showered with all throughout your childhood right until your marriage: love, comfort, warmth.

“I wonder how much this is?”

Your lawyer had picked up an ornate porcelain vase from the side table and threw it into the air. Your heart nearly stopped as you watched the decor flying off and gasped. Reaching out your hands, you tried to catch the vase yourself, but a moment later, it was landing safely in your lawyer’s hands again, who then turned to you, grinning.

“I guess it's very expensive,” he concluded.

You yanked the vase out of his hands and returned it to where it belonged. “Don’t do that again! This decor is finely picked out by my in-laws, and if there is only one vase slightly out of arrangement or one single statue looking in the wrong direction when they come over - which is almost every day - hell will break loose.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “That’s exactly what I imagined after what you told me about them. How can someone endure living here anyway?”

“I’m tougher than you think, Mr. Jeong.”

“Hm.” His eyes then fell on your appearance and scanned you up and down. “At first glance, you look like you totally belong here with your pantsuit and perfectly styled hair.”

“Just because I look like I belong here, doesn’t mean I do, Mr. Jeong.”

“Wise words for someone so young who doesn’t always make wise decisions, ma’am.”

You exhaled deeply. “Can we get over this as quickly as possible? You came here for a reason, right? Let’s get seated on the living room and-”

“Seats won’t be necessary,” he waved off. “You have to show me around your home.”

“And why would I have to do that?”

“Your husband is overseas on a business trip you’ve said, and I have to get a picture of the physical possessions, with how much money we’re dealing with apart from bank accounts, shares and all that stuff.”

“I see, that makes sense. But nothing here belongs to me, though.”

“That’s even better.” He turned around. “Which room is that?”

“The living room.”

“Great. Let’s start there.” Your lawyer entered the area as though he knew the place by heart while questioning, “You mentioned your in-laws visit here every day, Mrs. Kang?”

“Almost,” you partially affirmed while following him. “I guess they can’t let go of their son… and their need to control me.”

“What would they need to control about you? Are you somehow involved in their business?”

Your lawyer looked around in the gigantic living room that faced the panorama window reaching from the ground to the ceiling on the second floor. The sofa was placed in the middle of the area, right in a pit that was accessible by two steps built into the ground, encircling a marble coffee table probably worth a single-family house. Right next to it was a billiard table, most likely valuable just as much. This was going to be a very long evening, considering the inventory and the prices.

“I’m not involved in their business, Mr. Jeong.” You paused for a short while, invisible struggling with something inwardly. But you came to the conclusion that if you couldn’t tell your attorney, who then? “In fact, I’m secretly building my own one.”

“Oh?” He raised a brow. “Which kind of business?”

You remained silent for a few moments until he shifted to you and looked at you with inquiring eyes. “A bridal shop.”

You had already prepared a few witty responses, because whenever you told people about your business idea, they started laughing at you. Especially your in-laws. They had laughed at you so hard and shrugged your idea off immediately that you had never brought it up to them ever again. And your husband? He hadn’t even acknowledged it. You were not allowed to work in this marriage anyway.

That was why you almost desperately needed to win this case and all your money back - to fulfill your dream and reunite with your family. You could do that. That was how much you believed in yourself. Just nobody else ever did.

“So you like wedding dresses, ma’am?” your lawyer asked almost in passing, but there was no mocking undertone in his voice. “Somehow very ironic for someone who’s filing for divorce, don’t you think?”

“It’s my passion, Mr. Jeong.”

“How come?”

“I told you I will always have hope and I will always believe in love. That’s what I want to pass on as a message to someone like me. Someone who has found the love of their life, no matter for the first, second or third time, someone full of hope and brightness. Just because you haven’t experienced it yet or because one love has ended, doesn’t mean you’ll never experience this special kind of connection ever. It makes me happy to be part of something so significant. It keeps me going, it keeps me… hopeful, you know.”

“So you want to be part of other people’s special day to keep the thought alive that one day, you will still find the love of your life?” 

You clicked your tongue over the fact that everything coming out of his mouth sounded so… negative. “If you want to put it like this… I rather see it as an opportunity to share your happiness with equal minded people.”

“Why wedding dresses and not flowers then? Isn’t it more fulfilling to bring joy to people’s everyday life with flowers they give someone else most of the time?”

“You’re right, Mr. Jeong.” You smiled as you did not disagree with each other on this topic. “But my mother is a fashion designer and my father is an art dealer, so that’s the natural trajectory of my life. I love fashion, even if it doesn’t look like it. But there is only very little you can experiment with style-wise when all eyes are on you and you have to keep up a certain reputation according to your in-laws. I hide a lot of pent-up creativity not many people know of.”

“Oh, who would have guessed you’re not always all pantsuits and pencil skirts, Mrs. Kang.” He shrugged. “So you truly believe in it?”

“In what?”

“In love that lasts a lifetime.”

“As I said, Mr. Jeong… if we cease to believe in love… what is there to live for?”

"Wealth. Popularity. Freedom. Fun.” He snickered, but not in a way in which he made fun of you. He was more impressed by his own funny answer.

“But you have no one to share this with. Doesn’t your happiness then only last for so long?”

“Oh, I do have people to share this all with. Just because finding love is not my priority doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the company of beautiful women.”

You let out a deep sigh, but he shrugged your reaction off. Despite that, you had ended the topic on a  good note, because for the very first time ever, you were allowed to talk about your passion without getting cut off immediately.

By that time, you had already arrived at the kitchen. It was an impressively wide, open room made of expensive white marble which appeared unused for ages as it was spotless and shiny. As a matter of fact, just as it appeared, it was never used by anyone in this family - that much was true. This kitchen functioned only as a showroom when the family had guests over to lay out the appetizers and the buffet.

“So you have people who cook for you?” your lawyer concluded.

“It’s a personal cook that has gotten hired, yes.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Must be nice being rich, having people cook and clean for you every day.”

“Trust me, Mr. Jeong,” you opposed, “it’s not all that.”

You both then continued on to the second floor, and you could see him turning more and more impressed with the fact how your house was furnished. Not only the first floor was luxurious, but every other room as well. If there was something touching the ground or the walls, one could be sure that its worth came at least close to a small car, from furniture to decoration.

“Do you have to go in there?” you pressed through gritted teeth, and your lawyer rolled his eyes as you both stood in front of the closed master bedroom. “It’s a private area and there is not much inside.”

“Unless you have some secret toys lying out in the open, there is nothing to be ashamed of, we all know what’s going on in bedrooms, don’t we, Mrs. Kang?”

He grinned, unaware of the fact that there hadn’t been something going on in this bedroom for at least a year already. You also suppressed a gasp about his unhinged comment that was not very gentleman-like. But you also weren’t surprised your divorce lawyer, who always told you to play dirty, would leave dirty comments as well. You would just ignore them like the lady you got trained to represent.

“I guess you’re not sharing the bedroom anymore?” your lawyer asked as he wandered around in your private chamber after having opened the space.

“What has this got anything to do with my divorce?” you wanted to know, slightly enraged.

“A lot. If you can confirm that you haven’t shared a bed in quite a time, it’s easier to believe that your marriage has been in the shambles for so long and not a decision simply made overnight.”

“Divorce is never a decision simply made overnight, Mr. Jeong,” you clarified, but he corrected you instantly, 

“I didn’t mean it that way, Mrs. Kang. You will wonder how many clients come to me directly the day after they caught their partner cheating and change their minds to return to them a few days later. I want to know how serious you are and that it’s not a decision made on an impulse.”

“I don’t love my husband anymore, Mr. Jeong. Isn’t my tone sincere enough, my expression when I talk about my failed marriage? The fact I go through these lengths at my age?” Your voice got louder and louder, but he didn’t interfere. “But if you need to know about that part of my life too, then yes, I can confirm that my husband and I haven’t shared this bed for a little over a year already as he’s sleeping in his office.”

“Relax, okay?” he comforted you as you had ended your speech. “I was only asking.”

You dropped your head, suddenly ashamed of your slight blow up. “I’m sorry. That’s not… I’m usually not like this.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s normal to feel all these emotions going through a divorce. Sometimes, you need a ventil. It won’t be the last time that you talk to me like that, so let it all out. You’ll be surprised how much it helps.”

He was right, you thought to yourself, feeling a little bit lighter around your chest. But to your disadvantage, you bathed in that moment for a second too long and missed your lawyer opening another door in your bedroom of which he had probably assumed was your walk-in-closet.

“No, don-”

You stretched out your hand and wanted to reach him, but you weren’t fast enough and could only watch the door swing open, revealing a small room next to the bedroom that was certainly too spacious to only be a closet.

Instead, what he found in the room was a crib by the window where dim light was making its way through half-closed curtains. A light shade of yellow had been chosen for the tapestry, matching the beige carpet while the remaining furniture such as the changing unit and the crib itself were white. A few pictures on the walls added a playful undertone to the room, but that was it.

“I was only allowed to choose the pictures,” you explained recently as you slowly approached him. “They are sunflowers in different shapes. You know what sunflowers stand for?” You smiled meekly. “They stand for happiness and joy. This room should have brought me happiness and joy, but instead, it gave me years of sadness.”

He didn’t ask. Perhaps, he could figure it out himself as you had neither mentioned nor brought a child to your appointments with him. If not, then he sensed it wasn’t the right time to push the topic just yet.

“Let’s go,” your lawyer eventually exclaimed and closed the door behind him. “Let’s make your living room a bit messy when I unpack my laptop and we note down the cost of every item in here. That’s gonna be fun!”

He sometimes came off as rude and uncouth, but he knew when to stop talking.

_____

“What’s that?” You unpacked the plastic bag in front of you and pulled out a black long sleeve, black pants, black sneakers and a black beanie as you unsuccessfully attempted to crack a joke, “Were black clothes on sale today?”

“Those are your clothes for tonight.”

“If you haven't noticed yet, Mr. Jeong…” You looked down on yourself. “My style is classic, elegant. Not streetstyle, not coquette, or whatever this is. I’m still representing the family I married into and cannot wear this.”

“I’m sorry, but black cashmere sweaters were not on sale today, ma’am,” your lawyer said, and as you drew a closer look at him, you noticed that he was dressed all in black already too, and not in his usual suit, but more casual, even wearing a beanie himself. “Now undress and change into the clothes that I brought.”

“What would I wear this for?” You lifted up your hands and pulled up the pants. You usually never wore pants. “Where are we going? To the club? I don’t go to clubs.”

“No, we’re going to your house.”

“And why would we need these clothes if we’re going there?”

Somehow, you sensed you wouldn’t like the answer at all. “Because we’re going to rob you.”

“I- I don’t understand. Robbing… me? My home? While I’m there?”

“No.” Your lawyer came over to you, took the beanie out of the bag and then put it on your own head. He pulled the ends down into your face, messing up your slick bun so that a few strands stuck into your forehead. “Fits you perfectly.”

“Do you mean…”

The corners of his lips tilted up. “Exactly. You’re going to rob your own house.”

“Are you nuts?!”

“Ma’am, these words out of your mouth?” He snickered. “Change into the new clothes and then we can go.”

“What should this be good for?”

“It sounds cliche, but you really can’t see people who dress in black in the dark very clearly.”

“No, I mean robbing my home. What should that be good for?”

“Ah, that.” He scratched the back of his head. “When there is nothing of value in the house, then there are no items to fight over, hence less work for us. You said you didn’t care about his possessions, right? Then he won’t have anything left in the morning. We’re only going to grab jewelry and this kind of stuff for you to keep or sell. Just out of spite.”

You gasped in shock. “That’s illegal! I’m pretty sure that’s even a crime!”

“I can guarantee you,” he confirmed, “this is a crime on paper. Remember you told me you could play dirty?”

When you had agreed on playing dirty when it was needed, you had hoped that it was only a formality, that he was exaggerating or just wanted to test your willpower. You had never expected you both standing in front of your dark home in the middle of the night, dressed up as robbers just to do exactly that: commit a robbery.

With your arms crossed to hide your shaking limbs, you looked around nervously, sending a quick prayer to the heavens. Even though you lived on the highest floor and had used several backdoors through the building so that no one would know you had even entered in the first place, you still felt the risk of getting caught any second.

“This doesn’t help me at all,” your lawyer complained while handling the entrance door with different tools that made noises and left traces a little too obvious for your liking. 

“There is CCTV everywhere here and you just ruined the door’s frame,” you whispered in agony. “When my husband reports the robbery, they will check the time and date and then see us somewhere!”

“Do you think it’s my first time doing this?” he answered calmly while the door then opened smoothly with almost no sound. You furrowed your brows in question and wondered. Wasn’t the alarm supposed to go off? With a smug smile, your lawyer arose from his position and pushed the door entirely open. “Of course I had let the entire grid be turned off.”

You blinked in confusion. “How?”

“Again, you’ll wonder how far one comes in this country with just a little bribery.”

“That’s not very ethical,” you chided.

“You know what’s not ethical either?” He locked eyes with you. “Your husband taking all the money that’s legally yours from before your marriage, leaving you with no seed capital to start anew, with no prospects. Yes, it’s in the prenup, but what gives him the right to rob you like that just because it’s written on some piece of paper? Ma’am, the world is not a fair place,” he said confidently. “Sometimes, you just have to accept that. So, let’s go on a robbery.”

Your eyes narrowed, your nervosity completely wiped by now. “Let’s start with his office on the ground floor. I know he has some very expensive jewelry stored openly in there.”

Your lawyer’s grin widened. “Perfect.”

He had destroyed the door in a way that carried evidence of forced entry for the police investigation. On your way to the suggested room, you moved through the living area as well, and your lawyer had made it his mission to throw over some chairs and a small side table that had once carried some valuable crystal figurines that your mother in law liked to collect. They then all laid shattered on the floor.

“That was crystal!” you cried out. “Do you know how much it was worth? That was not necessary!”

“We’re on a robbery, not on a shopping trip at Tiffany’s,” he groaned. “Do robbers look like they care about some figurines? They come in a hurry and take everything valuable they can get in a short amount of time. They want the big stuff, gold, silver, money, jewelry… they don’t care for porcelain, vases… or whatever this was, things that are too big and break easily. Remember, we’re robbers, we have to make it look like we don’t care. Now, show me where he keeps his valuables stored.”

“There is way too much valuable stuff. How are we supposed to carry all of it?”

“We won’t.”

Your lawyer moved to the huge cabinet in the living area, stopped there for a moment, and then threw his entire body against the furniture. You let out a loud gasp, and another one as he pushed against the cabinet one more time, bringing it to a fall along with the pieces that were stored inside, instantly shattering in the process. The noise was immense and you had to cover your ears. He might not look like it in his suit, but now that he was only wearing a rather tight shirt, you noticed that your lawyer was very well built and that this was the reason why the cabinet hadn’t stood a chance from the beginning. 

He let out a “Phew!” as he turned to you and wiped over his forehead. “You can take on destroying his files and papers, just everything important to him. Let me handle this physical stuff. Don't worry, I made sure the neighbors on the floor beneath weren’t there tonight.”

You understood why you had to do this. If there weren’t many valuable items you had to fight over, the higher would be the chance they would let you off with your own money and the less time and nerves it would take to finalize the divorce, yet the sentiments that tied you to this place…

… they were nonexistent.

Opening all of your husband’s cabinets, rummaging through them and pulling stuff out just to scatter them everywhere felt somewhat very satisfying. You saw all his important files and papers on the ground and stomped on them like a maniac. Everything he worked so hard for, everything he owned while trying to steal from you simultaneously like he had done all your life already. Back in the days, you had just been too young and naive to notice.

You had held back so much during all this time and had never found a way to verbalize your feelings. A lady didn’t do that. A lady was always graceful and just endured. Right now though, you didn’t feel very ladylike. And it was the best feeling in so long.

You only stopped when your lawyer stood there next to you, arms folded across his chest, and there was an edge of mocking delight in his voice when he asked, “You’re done already?”

You lowered your head as he had caught you red-handed, but you also couldn’t wipe off the faint beam that remained on your lips even when he started rummaging through your husband’s cabinets in search of the watches you had told him were stored in there.

“I wasn’t aware he has such a large collection of the most expensive watches in the world,” your lawyer commented when he lightened up a drawer with the flashlight. “If I keep one to myself, would he notice? But then again, he won’t see any of these again anyway. So maybe I should ask you?”

You let out a long sigh and grabbed the watch from him that you then threw into the bag that he had brought along with. “That’s not funny. I think you make enough money to buy yourself an expensive watch.”

“Not this brand, but well…”

You rolled your eyes and continued with the sham robbery on the lower floor before moving on to the second. It was easy to destroy your own belongings as well. You didn’t feel any sentiment as you had expected. Over time, you had grown so resentful, at this point, you just really didn’t care anymore, except for…

“Don’t. Not inside there!” You threw yourself against the door your lawyer had initiated to open. There was no way he didn’t know what kind of room this was after his last visit, so he went in there with a purpose. As you lifted your head, a flash of empathy crossed his face, but you stopped your pleading gaze from breaking eye contact with him. “Please…”

You had been wrong. There was still something your sentiments were tied to in this place, the room where your baby should have lived.

“I’m sorry,” you heard him tell you with the lowest and softest form of tone he had ever addressed you with. “But if we leave this room out, then something is off. We have to at least rummage-”

Your front teeth pressed into your lower lip as you struggled with either making way for him or fighting him. You had hoped that, regardless of how much time had already passed, your past could always remain here as long as you kept this room locked up - just as your memories.

Letting another person inside would mean you had to close this chapter. And even if your therapist back then had also advised you to change this room into another event space and move on, you had never brought your heart to agree to that. What would happen if you moved out eventually? Wasn’t this the best opportunity to finally take this step? But it came so sudden…

“Can I still keep something?” you asked timidly. “My husband never entered this room, so he wouldn't miss anything, and I know what you want to say… I understand. Just please… one thing I can keep for myself? Maybe a jumper or a toy…”

It took a long while until he shrugged and eventually said, “You know… I don’t think there are robbers this cruel who would destroy a baby room. I mean…” He opened the door, but didn’t go inside. “No one would hide valuable possessions inside here anyway. Let’s go.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, and you wondered whether your tone could even carry a tiny fragment of the relief you were feeling right now to your lawyer, expressing how grateful you were for his understanding and gentleness, even though in his world, it might not make much sense at all. 

If he noticed the depth of your gratitude after all, with him risking your scam just to leave you this tiny piece of sentiment, then he didn’t bother showing you.

“Now off to my favorite part… the safe!”

“We won’t reach what’s inside there,” you warned him. “I even doubt his beloved mother knows the passcode to that.”

“Oh, we won’t get to steal what’s inside. But we will try. Ever used a crowbar to hit against something? It’s fun! Letting out a little anger. You’ll like it.”

Oh, how much you indeed came to like it.

____

“Very well.”

Your lawyer seemingly skimmed over the police report before he placed it aside on his desk, deeming it as done. Only a week after the incident, you had brought him a copy of the official papers that your husband had filed to confirm that everything was going according to plan.

After your fake robbery, you had pretended to arrive at home and called your husband in feigned shock that sounded so real over the phone, you nearly believed it yourself. Since he had been in a neighboring city only, he had arrived two hours later, and the performance you had put on in front of him and the police was nearly Oscar-worthy.

“Then, you only have to sign this.” Your lawyer had pulled out another set of documents from a staple on this desk and slid them over to you. “Exactly here, please.”

“What is this?” You read something about a bank in a whole other country that was unfamiliar to you, and a bank account under a name that was unfamiliar, too. “I cannot sign for another person.”

“I know. That’s why you will sign as this person whose name the account is booked under.”

“That’s not legal, I could go to jail for that!”

“This again?” your lawyer groaned. “This is the bank account onto which we will transfer all your money and hide it from your husband and his family. It is required for you to make sure you will keep your inheritance. It will take a few weeks, because of course we can’t just book your whole trust fund money onto another bank from one day to the other, it will take a few steps.”

“So basically money laundering,” you concluded cautiously.

“That’s the legal term, yes. I would describe it as…” He pursed his lips as though he was really thinking hard to come up with something. “Playing hide and seek. It’s suddenly gone and you don’t know exactly how long it will take, but eventually, you’ll always find it.”

You rolled your eyes, but signed the papers nonetheless.

“Very well. Now, grab your purse,” your lawyer summoned while he was taking off his glasses and arose from his chair. “We’re going to celebrate.”

“Celebrate? Celebrate what?”

“This success.” He put on his suit coat, circled his desk and picked up your purse from the chair next to you himself, thrusting it into your lap as you hadn’t made any move to reach for it yourself.. 

“Okay, but where?”

“Can you drink?”

“Not really.”

“Very well, then I’ll teach you.”

You reluctantly got up from your seat as you suspiciously asked, “Is this something you do with all your clients, Mr. Jeong?”

You were only able to watch his back when he opened the door and admitted, “Only with the ones I like.”

While you were still pondering whether his words had been a compliment, he had decided to take you to a shady bar, at a part of the city where you would never set foot in. It was dim and smelled strongly of smoke. The majority of the guests were male, there was a billiard table in the center, and on the menu were only beer and harder beverages.

“This is not the kind of establishment I usually frequent, Mr. Jeong,” you judged harshly while you struggled to find a comfortable position on the bar stool next to your lawyer.

“No, I don’t think you frequent any bar at all.” He had let himself plop on the stool next to you, took off his jacket and ordered two drinks you hadn’t heard of and neither ever sipped on before. “I purposely brought you here. You thought we were going to visit some kind of fancy rooftop hotel bar? Sorry to disappoint you.”

You scanned your environment with raised brows and a look that made men look back at you - but not in the open kind way. They were rather skeptical and curious. Your lawyer was still the best dressed here, everyone else was wearing casual clothes like they had just hopped by after work. They sensed you didn’t belong here, their faces spoke volumes.

“Don’t worry, these guys are harmless and actually nice. They just want a good drink and company before heading home alone, back to their dark and lonely room. It’s just… they don’t see women here that often.”

“I figured that much. What is this place even? Why are we here, Mr. Jeong?”

“It's a place to have fun! Try having fun, will you? Here.” He slid one of the two glasses the barkeeper had just dropped off on the counter closer to you. “Drink. Maybe this will help you to finally loosen up. And drop the ‘Mr. Jeong’-stuff, we’re off duty now.”

You knew there was no way you could say no, and even though you were doubtfully sniffing on the drink, trying to guess what it could be, you had to empty it under your lawyer’s watchful eyes.

“Oh my god!” You were coughing while your entire face heated up. You felt the liquid burning through your throat, making its way all the way to your stomach and settling there with a heat you had rarely encountered before. “What is this?!”

“It’s a drink to have fun! Are you having fun yet?”

“No!”

“Very well.” He downed his own beverage and then raised his hand. “Barkeeper, we need another two of these.”

You didn’t know how long it took for your perception of time to start shifting. You also didn’t know why you didn’t stop drinking, and certainly not why you didn’t say no. He wouldn’t have forced you, that much you were certain of. Maybe it was because you were truly weak. But maybe, in some kind of twisted circumstance, you were truly starting to have fun.

“Here, hold this.” You thrusted your purse and your jacket into Jaehyun’s hands. “I can’t look at this misery any longer.”

You rolled up the sleeves of your blouse and opened the first two buttons before - suddenly feeling not too hot and cramped in your own skin anymore - you strutted over to the men who had gathered around the billiard table, ready to start another set of games.

“May I join?” you asked into the round and earned many curious looks back. “Trust me guys, I’m really good at this.”

You had played billiard in your home so often, it started to bore you the better you got at this game. And with time, it had started to really dread you, because there had never been anyone to play with the many hours a day had to offer. 

“Miss, I don’t think-”

“Let her.” You didn’t see him, but you felt Jaehyun’s presence right behind you. Your chest swelled with confidence and pride. “She said she can do it, so let her.”

The men threw questioning looks at each other, but it didn’t take them too long until they all agreed to let you join, and one of them handed a queue over to you. “Ladies first.”

If your confidence had rooted from the alcohol you had chugged earlier, its effect was starting to lack now, because suddenly, you didn’t feel so full of yourself anymore. You bowed down lightly and positioned yourself on one side of the table. You usually started here, playing at home, but abruptly, you got so nervous with all these men looking at you with a certain edge of judgment they were unsuccessfully trying to conceal. 

If you failed the game’s opening, there would be no coming back from it, the momentum missed. You would play bad and they would all make fun of you. Maybe it would be better if you just backed down now…

“Well, well, well…”

You felt a palm on your lower back as you made attempts to arise from your position, keeping you in place as the hand gently pressed against the push upwards that you made. Jaehyun was preventing you from giving up.

He bowed down to you and whispered into your ear, “You don’t have to impress anyone. Just loosen up, let it go and have fun.”

You closed your eyes and breathed in deeply. He didn’t retreat his hand when you opened them again and angled the queue. He didn’t retreat his hand when you pulled back and pushed into the billiard balls. He only retreated his hand when you turned around to him, throwing your arms around his neck to celebrate that you had immediately put three balls into the holes.

You didn’t know when your hair had loosened and now fell in soft waves around your shoulders. You didn’t know when you had opened a third and fourth button on your blouse, revealing a bit of your undershirt. You also had lost count of the amount of drinks you had already downed the further the night processed.

But what you knew was that you had incredible fun.

“Did you see that, Jaehyun?” You were jumping up and down in front of him after winning another game against one of the bar visitors. “I won again!”

“Yes.” He smiled softly, like you had never seen before. “Well done.”

You tilted your head, your lipstick long gone, your cheeks heated. “It suits you so well, Jaehyun.”

“What?”

“That smile.” You beamed back. “Maybe you should wear this expression more often than that scorny grin. I like this one better.”

You couldn’t clearly see in the dim lightning, but you could swear you caught his ears turn red, and it was incredibly cute.

“Alright, brandy blossom,” Jaehyun then called out after you had won another game. “Time to go home before your hubby returns.”

“Already?” you pursed your lips and put down the queue. 

“You don’t want to be caught reeking of alcohol, all disheveled, right?”

You gasped and stemmed your hands against your hips. “Of course not! Just… another round, please? I need to properly say goodbye to my new friends.”

He gave in, knowing he didn’t stand a chance against the sad face you and the men you had been playing with pulled all at once.

Seemingly annoyed, Jaehyun sighed. “But just one.”

____

“Jaehyun, everything is spinning.” You leaned against him while he put an arm around you and kept you on your feet as you entered the elevator. “And I feel sick.”

“That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you play another round and have a last farewell drink with the other guests.” He pressed the button and watched the door close in front of you both.

“But I had so much fun,” you said as you looked for support by stemming yourself against the elevator wall. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun. I would do it all over again. Can we do this again sometime, please… Jaehyun?”

You didn’t know if Jaehyun ever replied to that as you closed your eyes and drifted away. You were moving, that much you knew, or was it all in your memory as well? You didn’t use your own body, but felt like you were being carried, not having to put your feet down. You were floating and a slight breeze pulling on the ends of your hair strands suggested that somewhere, a window must have opened, and then you fell…

… but on a soft cloud.

Your eyes reluctantly opened and you saw Jaehyun bending over you, worry sketched all over his face.

“Thank god!” he exclaimed in relief. “I thought you were passed out.”

“I feel so sweaty and smelly, Jaehyun,” you complained to him, starting to unbutton your blouse’s remaining buttons. “I have to change.”

“I’ll bring you the bathrobe.” But he wasn’t able to leave your side as your hand reached out to him and locked him down with a tight grip around his wrist.

“Please don’t go,” you whined, very much under the influence. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

“I won’t”, he spoke with a voice so gently, even in this state you wondered if it was the same person you spoke to about your divorce. You felt a palm touching your temple, swiping away a few hair strands. “I’ll just bring you a fresh bathrobe.”

Still, you refused and shook your head. “Please stay.”

It didn’t take him a second to answer, “Fine, I’ll stay.”

You drew a deep breather, staring at the half-darkened ceiling that was semi blurry in your drunken state. Only a small light was on, somewhere in the corner. Perhaps, it was the alcohol speaking the following words, but suddenly, you got so sad and hid your face by placing your forearm on your head. 

“Actually, you know… I’m so scared of getting divorced.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m scared that I’ll be alone all my life, after all.”

This time, Jaehyun’s answer took him much longer as if he was carefully thinking about each word. “You’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever encountered. You won’t be having any struggles attracting men who are handsome and treat you well, I’m sure about that. Just this time, choose widely.”

“I don’t think I want to get married so fast again,” you confessed. “I think next time, I will take it slow. I want to get a degree and open my business first. Then, I want to get married again.”

“That sounds very reasonable. You hadn’t had a chance to enjoy your youth much.”

“But I don’t want one night stands, flings, short-lived encounters…” You dared to peek from under your arm and eventually withdrew it from your face to look at Jaehyun properly. “What if I meet my true love during that time? Will he wait until I’m ready?”

He spoke with confident sincerity that was reflected in his expression as he assured you, “If he truly loves you, then he will wait.”

“But… I want to experience the love I am able to give. What if there is really only one love we get to have in a lifetime, and he has been this love for  me? What if I’ve used up all of my love for this life already?”

“That’s nonsense,” Jaehyun instantly dismissed. “Love is endless, you cannot use it up. Especially you. You have so much love to give, you cannot be the only person out there. You will meet someone whose love is as endless as yours, I promise.”

“How much love have you got left, Jaehyun? Is it still endless too?”

Only at this moment, you realized that you hadn’t let go of his wrist all along. Only at this moment, when he twisted your both’s fingers in a way that intertwined them. Your chest welled up, you hadn’t felt this cared for in what felt like an eternity.

“Yes,” he whispered. “It’s still endless too.”

“Then I’m glad,” you replied with a smile before drifting off to sleep.

____

You didn’t know when you last had fallen asleep with your husband on the same bed, let alone holding hands with him and having his arms wrapped around you from the back. Waking up groggily on your soft bedding, you first saw your intertwined hands resting on your hip, your husband breathing delicately with his face buried in your nape.

It was odd. You didn’t feel put off or disgusted even as normally whenever he even tried to have some kind of body contact with you. No, you felt content, comfortable and warm. So, so warm.

Except for… as your eyes scanned the room, it dawned on you that this was not your house’s wall and neither was that your window you were looking at. This wasn’t your bed either, and behind you was certainly not your husband laying. 

“No, no, no!” Your breath caught and you sat up straight on the mattress, waking up your lawyer with your hectic movements. “No, this can’t be!”

“What’s going on?” He instantly arose into a seating position although his eyes were barely opened yet. “You’re leaving already? It’s only… 6am.”

“Yes!” you screeched and escaped the entangled sheets, starting to adjust your pulled up skirt and open blouse. Your cheeks heated up and you turned around, away from your lawyer’s peripheral so as to not reveal more of your body to him than you already had. “I was supposed to be home by last night! Why am I here? Is this a hotel?”

“You were so drunk, you could barely walk and always drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t just bring you home. I just wanted to make sure…” He paused and then shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Oh my god, what do I tell my husband?” You ran your fingers through your disheveled hair and tried to clean your clothes. You could barely remember the last night. “Where is my phone?”

“Here.” Your lawyer held up the device in front of you. “Zero messages and zero missed calls. Can you calm down now, please? I’ll drive you.”

You took your phone into your hand and looked at it in utter confusion. “That’s strange. Usually, he would call me when I’m not home or at least send me a message. Let’s just hope he didn’t bother checking up in the first place, that would be the best case.” A very unwell feeling suddenly crept up your body, laying itself on your chest and slowly cutting off your air. “Something is off. I need to go home. Really, I need to go home right now.”

Rather cold hands suddenly placed themselves on your left and right cheek, cupping your face. Your lawyer looked straight at you with penetrating eyes. “Please, I need you to calm down first. Now.”

You tried shaking your head, but his grip was too strong. “I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.” There was no talking back. He wouldn’t let you go otherwise. “Calm down, then get dressed and I’ll take you home. Spiraling right now is not helpful. Try collecting your thoughts and then act according to it.”

So you tried as he told you and closed your eyes. You took a few deep breathers, but even though you could set your body at peace just a little bit, your heart still refused to do so. And you got a feeling it was not because of what was awaiting you at home, but rather because your lawyer stood so close to you. It was his presence that caused you to be all irritated at this moment.

A few memory threads flowed into each other again, and pieces of last night seeped back into your mind… Your hands around his neck, his soft smile, his gentle words, his arms carrying you to the hotel room, his fingers intertwined with yours, his chest pressed against your back in your sleep…

You looked at him, utterly petrified. Had you just cheated on your husband?

“You’re coming?” he asked.

You followed him out of the hotel room and into the elevator. You didn’t say a single word and he didn’t pick up a topic to talk about either, so you just remained silent and avoided eye contact at all cost. You wondered if he felt the same way about your unexpected intimacy from the night before: guilty and ashamed - against yourself. 

That was what you would describe it, but it was not what entirely described the bigger picture. Because why else would you have wished not to be still married right now just to have laid in bed with your lawyer for a bit longer?

“Checkout, please,” you heard him say as you stood next to him, totally lost.

Your husband was an attractive man, but your lawyer… You watched his back bend, messy strands falling into his forehead, a crinkled shirt tightening around his chest. A small part of you that had supposedly taken control over you last night, yearned for him in a way you had never yearned for a man before, not even your own husband.

You suddenly broke out in cold sweat and had to look away, fingers gripping tightly onto the jacket in your hand. You were still a married woman, you were not supposed to feel this way about another man yet, even though you didn’t love your husband anymore. You still belonged to him on paper…

“Let’s go.” Your lawyer looked at you, frowning. “Are you okay? You look feverish.”

He wanted to touch your forehead, but you quickly turned your head away. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe you, but let it rest. “Fine.”

You trotted after him, feeling torn about what was morally right and the desires that had started to involuntarily get into your head.

____

Something was off at home, because nobody was there.

You and your husband didn’t speak often except for the necessities. Most of the time, he would sleep at his office in the house, coming back late in the night and leaving early in the morning. Sometimes, when it was very late, he didn’t bother to check up on you at all, assuming you were asleep already. For last night, you had just hoped that it was this exact case.

And just as you were standing there in the lobby, kind of lost and still groggy with a slight hangover starting to announce itself, you got a phone call.

“Hey,” you greeted.

“Hey,” your husband greeted back. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it home last night, and I won’t be able to come back today either. There is too much going on in the company.”

You didn’t bother to care anymore, you hadn’t in a long time. You were just relieved that last night didn’t have any consequences. “I understand.”

“Is mother already gone?”

“M… mother?” 

Your blood froze and your vision shifted to a silhouette that was just revealing itself in the corner and slowly stepping into the weak daylight. You had judged too early, weighed yourself in safety too fast as there it was, your consequences.

“Yes,” your husband responded. “Don’t you think it was nice of her to spend the night, because she was worried you would be alone after the robbery? Anyway, I have to hang up and get back to work. Bye.”

Your arm slowly slipped down, fingers barely still holding onto the phone as you looked at your mother-in-law like you were facing a ghost.

“By the looks of it, it seems like someone’s had a rough night.”

You did your best to keep your voice low and conceal the trembling tone that came along with your answer, “I was at a friend’s house last night.”

Your mother-in-law snickered and approached you, her face not changing a bit - the result of year long surgeries. She was smaller than you and certainly older, but something so wicked and deeply evil had always been surrounding this woman that even her own sons wouldn’t dare to look into her eyes without permission.

Secretly, she was the one running and pulling the strings behind the company, the entire conglomerate even, stemming from one of the country’s richest families for centuries. At least that was what she liked to tell, but your research didn’t reveal such connections. That didn’t make her appearance less intimidating though as even her own husband looked small next to her.

“Don’t fool me, darling. You don’t have any friends.”

Two years ago, you would have apologized deeply and fallen to your knees, begging for forgiveness, even if it meant kneeling for days. But you weren’t the intimidated girl from shortly after your marriage anymore. Losing your child had shaped you deeply and the divorce was the final stage, not the process - even though you still had weak moments. You decided this wouldn’t be one of them.

“You don’t know anything about me or my life.”

Somehow, you felt mentally so strong right now and straightened your shoulders to present self-confidence, aware of the fact that even though your way through this divorce was not the prettiest and most legal, it was the most effective. And truth to be told, they didn’t deserve a clean divorce anyway.

“I see it written all over your face,” she snarled. “You’ve been with another man.”

This woman didn’t deserve a glimpse of your new, true self at all.

This woman who had told her son, “If you had just waited half a year more, you wouldn’t have had to marry her and we wouldn’t have this burden in our family now.”

And the son who had just answered, “I’m sorry to be such a disgrace, mother.”

And you, the timid girl, you had just sat with them and swallowed every tear, because nobody in this family was supposed to cry - not even after losing your own child.

You wondered if that had been the moment you started slowly losing the love for your husband who you had deeply loved from the first the moment he struck up a conversation with you at the university where he had been invited to as a guest speaker. Three months in, you got pregnant and another three months later, were married. 

You had never graduated with your degree, but you hadn’t cared, because you had loved him deeply. For you, it had always been enough - but never for his family. It struck you the moment you had lost your baby and fell from grace.

For two more years, you had wondered whether you could restore the fading love or find another way to feel so deeply again. You had been stuck in a limbo where you questioned if it was some strange form of Stockholm Syndrome you had developed or whether you were just too weak of a person to break free, too afraid to never find love again. 

When one night two months ago, you had found your husband all immersed in work and family problems on the death anniversary of your child which he clearly had forgotten about, you had finally figured that he was a simple man who would always be under the control of his mother. There was no need to fight for what had long been lost. You were much stronger alone.

“You are only still here, because a divorce is a disgrace, never forget that and be grateful you have everything you need. Other women would happily trace places with you.”

“Then let them!” It was the first time you heard yourself raising your voice against her. “Let them replace me! You know we don’t love each other anymore, why don’t you let me go then?”

“Oh, darling.” Your mother-in-law stretched out her hand and touched your cheek. It felt ice cold, but you couldn’t move as your body turned to stone. “I would have, but you’re just so easy to keep here, why bother in the first place? I can keep you low and our reputation stored, it’s much better than dealing with a hassle.”

No, you weren’t easy to keep anymore anymore, you were just very good at hiding all of it and keeping up your facade. Maybe before, you would have caved and given in. Maybe before this all, you would have crouched in front of her. Maybe, before you hired your lawyer, you wouldn’t have had these thoughts at all. But only the imagination of him gave you everything you needed to fight back years of suppression. 

“I’m not scared of you.”

The slap came unexpectedly, leaving a visible mark on the side of your face. You gasped for air as you held onto the burning skin, your senses not coming together just yet over what had just happened. It felt like the spot got handled with many needles trying to push through a thin layer.

“The next time you’re robbing your own house, make sure to not leave footprints all over the scattered papers, the police might be onto something. I don’t know who’s helping you, if that person is a criminal or your affair, but if you really have some kind of shady thing going on behind my back, I will take you down and your entire family with you.” A threat so sharp that cut through the air like a knife. “Nobody knows about this, so I will do you a favor and keep it between us. If you continue with whatever you’re planning, I promise you, you will regret it deeply.”

Your family… you didn’t know when you had last seen them. You missed them dearly and there was no way you could put them in danger.

That was the only thing you could think of before you snapped back to reality as the entrance door closed behind you.

____

“Who did this to you?”

Your lawyer was kneeling in front of you, inspecting your bruised face with hands so gentle and a gaze so soft, it reminded you all of last night. You were sitting on the couch in his office, legs pulled up to your chest, staring at him but at the same time through him.

“Who?” he asked again as you didn’t respond, this time more insistently. He jumped back to his feet. “Who did this to you? Your husband?! I’m gonna k-”

Reluctantly, you shook your head. “No, it was my mother-in-law. She knows.”

“She knows about what? Whatever she knows, it doesn’t give her the right to physically abuse you!” You had never seen him this agitated and furious before as he walked around his office in a haste, apparently in search of something. 

“She knows that I’m onto something… with someone,” you admitted, fearing that he might get angry as you had not been careful enough. “She mentioned my shoe’s footprints over the scattered papers on the ground… I walked all over them, remember?”

“So what?” your lawyer dismissed in an instant. “This doesn’t mean anything. If this divorce makes it to the court, no judge will pay attention to this detail. You live in the house, naturally your footprints will be somewhere.”

You lowered your head, but sensed him walking back to you and pressing something against your cheek, providing instant relief to your burning skin. It was an empty, cold glass. “Sorry, I don’t have anything else here. I hope it helps.”

“Thank you.”

“What else did she say?” he inquired. “Whatever she said, I promise you, in this divorce, I will wring her out until she’s dry and has nothing left anymore. Then, I will push even further, that much I can do.”

“She’s right with everything she’s said to me,” you whispered absent-mindedly, rotating the glass on your skin so that the spot would always meet a cold surface. “I’m so easy to keep, that’s why I’m still there.” It was a paradox to you how a much older and tinier woman had brought up enough strength to hurt you this deeply, inwardly and outwardly. “But what was I supposed to do all this time? I’m from a reputable family and have willingly signed this contract, giving away my rights, my freedom. It was very convenient for them… I was only a convenience that had come along at the right time as their son wasn’t married yet. And then, I couldn’t even bear my child, and it turned me into a disgrace in an instant.”

“Stop!” your lawyer called out, bracing his arms against his desk that then creaked under his weight. His eyes were forcibly closed and there was a huge frown forming on his face. “Don’t ever talk about yourself like this again!”

“But it’s the truth!” you protested. “She may not be in the right, but she is right about me! I willingly agreed to cut off contact with my family, friends, everyone. And then it takes me two years to do something against it! Let’s face the truth…”

“Don’t say that,” he pleaded lowly, his knuckles turning white as he added more pressure to his grip against the desk’s edge. “It’s not like you. You were always so full of hope, in a fighting mode.”

“I still am!” you disagreed. “I still am full of hope and fighting, but let’s face the truth... I’m so young and I will have been through a divorce in the near future. I’ve lost a child, I don’t have a degree, no money for now, no prospects. Who would even want me anymore?”

You didn’t except an answer, it was only a rhetorical question, but he still gave you one,

“Me. I would.”

You heaved up your head, expecting to encounter a grin as your lawyer had just joked around to lift up your spirits in a meek attempt, but as you met his gaze, your breath caught. He was not kidding. He was dead serious, and by now you could quite well distinguish between his serious and joking demeanor.

“Jaehyun…”

His brows drew together, and he eventually broke out in a relieved smile, just a little bit. “Finally, you call me by my first name, even now.”

“Mr. Je- Jaeh-” You shook your head in confusion. You suddenly didn’t know what to think, say or even feel anymore. “Please don’t joke around, now is not the time.”

“I’m offended that you think I’m joking after all this time. I don’t make jokes about that.”

You dropped the glass on the cushion and jumped out of your seat, moving to the other end of the office room, far away from him. You couldn’t bear being so close to him with all that nonsense that he was speaking, because you feared that a big part of you wished for it to become true. 

“You know that I am looking for my one true love.”

“Who said it can’t be me?”

“I’m still married to Kang Seungmin.”

“Then I will have to hurry up with the divorce papers.”

“I want to get a degree and open my business before marrying again.”

“I’m willing to support that and wait.”

“You’re so full of life and I’m so broken.”

“Then I’ll bring you back to life too.”

Why did everything he say sound so illogical, yet so tempting? If life was only that easy as he always made it seem with his shady business, maybe there was still hope for you, too. You longed for the lighthearted young woman you had been in the past, and something inside you, maybe the remnants of her, believed that with him, she could find her way back to the surface.

“You don’t understand the depths of my trauma, you cannot love me, Mr. Jeong.” You turned back to the couch and picked up your purse. Walking towards the door, you told him, “I wish we would have met before all of this happened. I wish you would have met me when I was still in university. You would have liked me more back then and my life would have turned out differently.”

“Your life can still turn out differently, because it doesn’t matter when we would have met. I would have liked you all the same.”

You wanted to walk out, but your fingers remained on the door handle, refusing to move. Your cheeks were burning, but on both sides and for an entirely different reason now than shortly before. You were crying hot tears that were streaming down your face. “You don’t know what you’re saying…”

Suddenly, you felt his hot breath against your neck and flinched. But he didn’t touch you, no matter how desperately you wanted it, and you continued to fight against this desire. 

“We can also fall in love now, forget about the past and start again.”

“This is what you cannot understand,” you spoke earnestly. “I can never forget about the past, Mr. Jeong. And I refuse to do so, because it’s a part of me and will become a part of my partner too. My current husband has failed to allow this to happen to him.”

Then, your fingers were finally moving and you slipped out of his office. You used the stairs this time, running all the way to the ground floor. Only outside of the building, you were ready to come to a standstill and start breathing regularly again. You were sweating unlike ever before, hot and cold waves washing through your body.

But you continued your way by walking, walking all the way home, whether directly or in circles, you didn’t know. You just kept walking until it was nighttime, until you returned to your house where emptiness was awaiting you.

And as you stood there, alone in the darkness, you wondered how long it would take for it to consume you entirely.

You refused to let it get this far. Not again.

____

A few days later, you were standing in front of a grave that you generally avoided visiting except for only one time a year. The pain was too much to bear alone as nobody had ever bothered to accompany you.

This year, you were here for the second time - but this time you had company.

“I’m sorry if the things I’ve said back then were too insensitive,” Jaehyun apologized. “Just because I’m older doesn’t mean I’m more experienced. Of course I don’t know anything about your pain.”

“That’s why I brought you here,” you told him, your look unwavering from the small tombstone. “I want to share it with you. If you still want to love me after this, then I will believe you.”

…

When you found out that you were pregnant, you weren’t shocked like so many girls your age, who had just entered university, would generally feel. 

You were head over heels in love with your boyfriend who, despite your huge age gap and his position in the company, had made it his priority to shower you with gifts and love. That this was considered ‘love bombing’ and ‘grooming’, you would only figure out later. Up until this day, you were still convinced your love for him was real. It just wasn’t your fault that you were an easy target. It was his fault that he had even approached you in the first place as a grown man ten years older than you.

It only took one time for the two stripes on the test to appear. His happiness wasn’t feigned, and neither was yours. Of course you would drop out of university and get married. Marrying into this family would mean to never have to work anymore anyway and only caring for your child and husband. The fact that this was all convenient for a man who couldn’t keep a woman his age and was under so much pressure from his family, you would only figure out later. 

It was a shotgun wedding, but of course that wasn’t what was written all over the news. To his family’s luck, you weren’t showing yet and from a reputable background, but you had to hurry up with the wedding nonetheless. You were anticipating this child so much, even though your family tried to sabotage your wedding. That was probably why you were so easy to get talked into cutting off all contact with the people related to you. They didn’t understand you. The fact that they only tried to warn and save you, you would only figure out much later.

You signed away your inheritance, because what was yours was his, and thus for your child and every future child as well, it sounded all logical. You felt loved and cared for unlike ever before. Why be with your unsupportive family when every love and warmth you could find with your husband’s family? Other people looked for love all their lifetime and were unsuccessful. You were lucky to have found the love of your life at an early age. 

The fact that the people who told you you were too young to marry were not jealous, but only caring, you would only figure out much later…

… when you were lying in your bed with cramps so bad, you thought you were going to die. Except that it was the child inside of you, who was almost due to be born, was the one dying.

There hadn’t been any signs. He had been healthy. Yet, somehow, his heart had stopped beating.

They took your baby out with a c-section, you had only held him in your arms once. Nobody had shown up to share this incredibly painful moment with you. 

This moment that had dragged you into a darkness which would take you years to break free from.

…

“Suddenly,” you continued, speaking to Jaehyun, “I wasn’t the beloved daughter-in-law anymore. I was a disgrace. If I cannot keep a baby, why bother about me? My body cannot function properly, it refuses to act according to nature. Nobody looked at me the same way anymore, not even my husband. While my mother-in-law confronted me with disgust and anger whenever we met, it was disappointment that was mirrored in my husband’s eyes. He wanted to try again, his mother wanted him to. They didn’t give me a moment to mourn my stillborn child.”

“Did he…?” Jaehyun started, unable to speak out the words, but you shook your head.

“She insulted him many times, but he never did anything against my will. We did genuinely try though, I didn’t want to give up on my marriage, but I think my body already had. Sometimes, I caught him lying to his mother that we were trying when we had long stopped. This, I’m grateful for. But it made her hate me even more, because I’m in the wrong as I cannot conceive according to her.”

“This is horrible…”

You stood there, side by side, looking at your baby’s grave. “Sometimes I think he knew what kind of life was awaiting him and chose to not join me. I would have been a horrible mother under these circumstances.”

“He?”

“My baby was a boy.”

“No.” Jaehyun shook his head and suddenly reached for your hand. He was holding it for a long time, before he eventually said, “You would have been the best mom, no matter the circumstances.”

“So why is my baby not with me now?” you sobbed. “Why did it leave me?”

This was a question you were asking yourself over and over again, ever since it had happened. Your therapist had advised you to let go of these thoughts and the guilt, finally breaking free from that darkness by moving on. But you just couldn’t and had stopped going to the sessions from then on. She hadn’t understood the depths of your pain either - or so you had thought.

“Maybe,” Jaehyun started and removed his hand from yours to put it on your shoulder and shift you around to him instead. “Your baby didn’t leave you. Maybe your baby just sensed it wasn’t the right time and is waiting to come back to you when you’re ready again. Then, you’ll see each other again.”

You cried even harder at this point, only slowly realizing that Jaehyun had his arms wrapped around you now, embracing you tightly. Somehow, you had missed someone like this throughout all the years of pain, someone who listened, who was willing to share your suffering, who made it all more durable. Someone who was finally seeing you and acknowledging the depths of your pain. 

Had your lawyer been this person all along and it was meant for you to only find him now when you were ready for it?

“I like that thought,” you brought out under tears. “That I will see my baby again.”

“And your baby will also see your family and friends. I will make sure of that.”

“Jaehyun…” He pressed your face against his chest and rested his chin on the top of your head, tenderly brushing over your hair.

“I still want to love you. With all your pain, all your scars. I still want to love you.”

This time, you believed him.

Even more so when you came back to the grave a few days later. You didn’t want to run away anymore. If you freed your pain and didn’t lock it away in an abandoned room, it would grow easier to be a part of your life. That was why you wanted to confront your darkness and pay visits to your baby’s grave more frequently.

… Only to find out that someone had been here shortly before you, leaving a bouquet of fresh lilies.

Jaehyun really wanted to love all of you, past and present.

____

“These are the finished documents.”

Your divorce file was thick. You were sitting at Jaehyun’s desk and were only skimming over the first few pages. Every single paragraph was dissected and laid out very carefully, in every little detail so that no word could be misunderstood. 

You didn’t know why you had failed to pay attention to this before, but Jaehyun was incredibly intelligent and determined. He must have worked almost restlessly on these papers and had really meant it when he had said to hurry up with.

“What’s going to happen now?” you asked, hesitant to hear the answer.

“I will send this file to your husband and he will probably consult his own lawyer. Which is legally his right, even if he agrees on everything. Depending on how much he or his family wants to change, it will take months to… years negotiating, going back and forth.”

Years… 

You had told Jaehyun to wait until you were a divorced woman. That much respect you still had for your husband, even though you had already taken off your wedding band. And truth to be told, you were still unsure about Jaehyun. It wasn’t a decision you could make overnight at such a state, you had only loved one man in your life so far. Your next choice had to be the right choice, and how could you have already figured out if he was the right choice?

You didn’t want to get married on and off, it wasn’t supposed to be that easy, so you had to be as sure as possible. But then again, you had been fooled once by the love of a man close to your possible future lover’s age. How was it possible you weren’t going to be alluded into a marriage by false promises and hopes again? You might be a bit older and wiser than back then, but did it also apply to your heart?

“This is the toughest part,” Jaehyun continued explaining. "Negotiating. But I will always be by your side, remember that, I will accompany you on every step.”

You wondered whether negotiating with your husband or resisting your lawyer would be harder for you to do in the future.

“Then I will probably need a place to stay during the entire process. I should move to a hotel first and then go from there.”

“There is no need,” Jaehyun dismissed and got up from his chair. “I have a place for you to stay.”

You tilted your head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s go.”

You took his car and he drove to a part of the city, far outside of the bustling center, which you hadn’t stepped foot in in years, even though it was close to your current neighborhood. This was where you had grown up, this was where you had spent the majority of your life. This was the area where your parents lived.

The car came to a stop right outside of your family’s house.

“Here we are.”

You turned your head away from the window, the sight of your childhood home causing tears to well up behind your eyes. “I’m not supposed to come here, Jaehyun.”

“Says who?”

“The contract.”

“The contract is bullshit,” he blatantly called out. “Who would have even controlled whether you came here? No one. You could have come here all the time without anyone noticing, you know that. You just… didn’t want to or couldn’t bring yourself to. Am I right?”

He had called you out, and you couldn’t close your ears from the truth much longer. He was right. No one had ever controlled you. Perhaps, they hadn’t had to as by your mother-in-law, you had always been too weak to go against the rules. When you had grown out of this phase though, it was long too late to make amends.

“In the beginning, my family and friends all tried to reach out to me. But whenever we talked, I only heard ‘You’re too young to marry, don’t do it!’, ‘Come home, you don’t need to stay there’, and much more. I dismissed their words, I thought they weren’t happy for me and didn’t understand me. So I eventually cut off any form of communication which was aided by my mother-in-law taking away my phone after catching me calling my mother once. They never knew I was pregnant, I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. I had a new family who would take care of me, I didn’t need them anymore. Until I was all alone at childbirth and knew I had made the wrong decision.”

“The more you tell me about your in-laws, the bigger my desire grows to unalive them with my bare hands.”

You nervously kneaded your fingers, your gaze fixed on the movements. “It was their form of manipulation, isolating me from everything and everyone that could change my mind and open my eyes to the truth. Eventually, my trauma had done the job. It also made me realize that I am the one to blame too. I could always reach out in other ways, but never did. With time, my guilt grew to such an extent that every form of reconnection would spiral me into much deeper guilt. So I gave up like they have given up on me. It was easier to think this way as I could never forgive myself for the things I’ve said and done.”

“But they’ve never given up on you.”

You shrugged. “You wouldn’t know.”

“Except that I do. Why else would we be here?”

Your head snapped up and you looked at Jaehyun, then outside of the window in the direction of your house where at the same moment, the entrance door opened, that much you could see over the high metal fence surrounding the garden.

“What…” You were lost for words.

“Like you will never stop loving your child, your parents will never stop loving you too, no matter how many irrational decisions you make, no matter how many cruel things you say to them. You will always have their love,” Jaehyun explained slowly so that you could process at the same time. “A few days ago, I looked for them, drove here and explained the situation. But I left out a few important parts as it is entirely your story to tell them. I think you will have a lot to talk about in the upcoming days. Look, they’re waiting for you already.”

It was at this moment that you realized that you had never experienced love in its purest form.

Until now. 

And you weren’t referring to your parents as that was another form of love, family love. You weren’t referring to your friends either as that was platonic love. You certainly weren't referring to your husband either as that had turned out to only be conventional love.

You were referring to Jaehyun going through lengths to reconnect you with your family along with many other things. You suddenly weren’t alone anymore. Life suddenly looked so bright and full of hope when you had someone to also share the happy moments with.

You weren’t alluded by false hopes and promises. He was a man of words and actions unlike anyone you had ever met before. And if this wasn’t true love, then what was? There was no guarantee, no glimpse into the future. There was only your heart following a path he shaped for you in the purest form possible, hoping that one day, you would return his feelings.

“Jaehyun, I-”

“Wait.” He cupped your face and smiled when you were facing each other. “It can wait. Go to your parents first. Take your time. Then, you can come to me and tell me everything you want to tell me, alright?”

“Thank you.” And these two words couldn’t even express the entirety of gratitude you felt towards him, among so many other things.

He gave you a kiss on your forehead, then watched you open the door, walking towards your parents.

____

Jaehyun wasn’t having a good day. 

In fact, he hadn’t had a good week altogether.

He was grumpy with his employees, sloppy with his files and overall not at the peak of his law-game. His assistant had to point out mistakes in the papers more than several times and was already overly annoyed before he said goodbye for the week, leaving Jaehyun alone in his office.

He missed you incredibly, and it was messing with his usually organized and cool head. Suddenly he caught himself by what he had been trying to avoid all along: emotions caused by love. 

Jaehyun had known what it was the moment you went to the bar together, hair flying carefreely around your heated cheeks. Back then, he had only wished to keep the smile on your face forever, it suited you so much better than the stern and calculated look. Having you wrapped in his arms, he had been awake for the majority of the night that followed, thinking about how he could protect you from a world this cruel, a world that had treated you so unfairly all your life, causing you all this pain that nobody should ever endure.

Jaehyun had never been afraid to love, but afraid to admit that he was secretly looking for a lifelong love too, just like everyone else. After all, he was proven every day by wives consulting him that true love was just a misconception and people were mere life partners that eventually parted ways to look for someone new. His job was to break love, not to create it. And now he was finding himself in exactly that state…

… head over heels in love with a woman he never wanted to let go again. A woman whose absence drove him crazy, because every minute he was parted from her felt like a lifetime. Jaehyun certainly had been in love in the past, but he had never gone through these extents for someone outside of his profession.

It made him question his choice of occupation nowadays. And ironically enough, this train of thoughts led him to your husband of whose lawyer he hadn’t heard anything at all. The divorce papers had certainly been delivered to him, but no one had reached out to him in return yet. He made it his mission to take care of this tomorrow.

From the corner of his eyes, Jaehyun saw his office door open and a person walking in, pulling him out of his thoughts. He was currently storing away some files and ready to head home as well. 

“We’re closed already, come back tomorrow and make an appointment with my secretary.”

“But I need an appointment right now, Mr. Jeong.”

Jaehyun’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest in happiness when he heard your voice and shifted around. But the woman in front of him didn’t have much in common with the woman who had intruded his office back then.

Instead of pant suits, pencil skirts and high heels, you were wearing a long flowy skirt, a matching blouse and flats. Your hair was falling loosely over your shoulders like the night in the bar, and Jaehyun was sure he had never seen you this beautiful and full of life before. And if it was possible, he loved you even more now.

He dropped the files on the desk and straightened his shoulders. “How was the time with your parents?” he asked, reluctant as to what to do next. He didn’t want to push you, even though there were a million other thoughts in his mind right now and none of them had anything to do with small talk.

“We talked a lot. We cried a lot together, too,” you summarized for him, and he noticed that even your way of speaking had changed. You sounded more confident, but instead of it stemming from your insecurities, it rooted from deep and dripped with sincerity. “It was good, taking a few days off to think about everything.”

“And to what conclusion did you come to?” Jaehyun didn’t know why this question made him so nervous.

A faint smile tugged on the corners of your lips. ”I came to the conclusion that time is too precious to be wasted, Jaehyun. I’ve lost so much time with my parents just because I was weak, and I won’t get it back, nor can I turn it back. I can only do the best with our remaining time from now on. But there is no way I will make this mistake of losing my time with someone I love again.”

Jaehyun took a deep breather, trying to keep his composure. “You wanted to wait until your divorce, until you were sure.”

“I know.” You paused. “But when I thought about what I would regret more… I just couldn’t stand the thought of seeing you moving on, maybe with another woman. And it might be not in your book now, but how do we know what the future brings? I would only regret letting you go without even trying. I was never given a choice, but this, this is my choice. You gave me a choice. And I decided for this, I want this, Jaehyun.”

He cleared his throat and reached for his tie, loosening it a bit as he thought it currently cut off his breathing. “Do you know what you’re saying?” He took a stop towards you. “Be careful.”

You snickered - a tone that sounded like music in his ears - and took a step towards him as well. 

“Mr. Jeong, I’m willing to play dirty in private as well. Where do I sign?”

____

Jaehyun wiped his desk free with one hand. Documents, pens, his notebook and even a lamp dropped to the floor, but luckily did not shatter. You let out a gasp, first because you got startled by his impulsive action, and then because he had picked you up and sat you on the desk.

You almost physically felt the electrifying tension between your faces that had built up over the past few weeks, and as your lips came crashing down on each other, it was like sparks flew into every direction to finally celebrate the release of all this pent-up desire.

Jaehyun’s lips were warm and soft, and very demanding. His hands were holding onto your face, angling you up to him as though he wanted you whole, taste, scent and all. Never in your life had you been kissed with so much passion and longing, being claimed in a way a woman could dream of.

You had been intimate only with your husband before, and where lovemaking with him was quiet, lukewarm and quite trite, the onset of the very same act with Jaehyun pushed up too high of what was ever possible in your sole imagination. 

You were wild, fiery and loud. Oh, you could have never imagined to be that loud during the act. You threw your head back as Jaehyun kissed your neck, leaving wet trails where his lips passed. Letting out a moan, you spread your legs wider and pulled him close between your thighs. You chuckled silently when you felt him having grown so much already.

Goosebumps covered your legs as you felt him reaching under your skirt and pulling up the fabric. Jaehyun’s hands were roaming over your thighs, moving back and forth across your skin, and you simultaneously grew very hot in places you had long forgotten about. He tugged on the waistband of your panties, his fingers sliding between your folds and slowly rubbing there, causing you to catch your breath because of the intensity of the sensations.

Everything was going too slow for you now, and you wanted all of him all over you, inside of you. An inner voice was screaming desperately after him.

Suddenly, you halted.

“What’s wrong?” Jaehyun asked, worried.

“I… I don’t know how this works anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“... this. Is it silly?”

You drew your brows together, expecting to be laughed at, but Jaehyun just smiled mildly and tucked a strand of your loose hair behind your ear. How could you have ever thought he’d make fun of you? He never had. 

“Nothing is silly. You were just so into it, what’s gotten into your mind?”

“I don’t know if I’m going to be… good. And I have… scars.”

You threw a meaningful gaze at him, hopeful he’d understand without many more explanations, and he did. You wouldn’t be his chosen woman if you weren’t still putting so many thoughts into one single action. 

“You still have problems to loosen up,” he concluded. “But don’t worry. If you trust me completely, it will all be fine and I will help you get your head free. So… do you trust me fully?”

It only took you a near-whispered “yes” before he swept you off the desk and carried you, with your thighs tightly wrapped around his waist, to his couch. Not even a minute later, you found yourself with your skirt all draped around your hips and your panties hanging loosely on one of your feet.

You didn’t see Jaehyun’s head anymore, only feeling his hair in a tight grip where your panties should have been, seeing stars dancing across the ceiling that you were currently facing while he ate you out like he had all the time in the world, sensually and delicately.

His tongue dragged along your folds that had long gotten wet the first time his mouth came close to your core. Gone were all your worries and doubts, there was no room to think about anything else than he way he was devouring you now, licking and sucking between your thighs until your eyes rolled back and his name fell from your lips like hurried prayers, interrupting his slurping sounds,

“Jaehyun, Jaehyun, Jaehyun…”

You angled your knees as you felt something tightening inside your lower stomach that you couldn’t pinpoint. It had first started off as a small spark, but was now coiling into something bigger that tugged on every fiber of your body. You were quite sure the fact that Jaehyun sucked on your clit and simultaneously thrusted his fingers inside of you was responsible for this indescribable feeling, more so when he grabbed you by your bare cheeks with his hands and pressed you against his mouth even stronger. 

You had had orgasms before. At least that was what you had thought. They had come like a small wave, giving you a pleasant feeling and luring a silent sigh out of you, and that had been it. This orgasm right now though was on a whole other level. 

Your whole body tensed up as though trying to protect itself from what was about to come, but no resistance in the world could withstand the persistence of the man who loved you to make you feel good. The coiled up sensation exploded inside of you the moment you thought you were going to die from endless pleasure, and then spread not only into your body, but also mind. 

There was no control over how your body reacted, you held onto Jaehyun’s head like a lifeline with your head lolled back, and screamed his name as though in need for help, your body leaking fluids in places you would have been originally embarrassed for, but Jaehyun loved it, every single reaction he was able to lure out of you.

Underneath him didn’t lie the uptight, suppressed woman anymore, in pantsuits and with no hair out of place. It was a new woman he had now unraveled, with wild hair, heated cheeks, liberated and eager to explore worlds she had never set foot into before. And he would guide her all the way into his world.

With a grin, Jaehyun wiped over his smudged mouth while you were still trying to catch your breath, but eventually returned his expression, ready for more. His fingers were trembling a bit when he first got rid of your skirt and then unbuttoned your flowy blouse. 

A flash of concern ran through your face in the blink of a moment when he undid the last button, but he understood. He helped you out of the garment, and when you eventually laid back again in front of him, bare-chested and naked from head to toe, he saw.

Jaehyun left no room for you to mistrust him though. Undressing himself from head to toe first, he then kneeled in front of you on the cushion and leaned in. With warm fingers, he reached out to your lower abdomen and then gently touched the spot of which you had been so afraid to let him see. 

But the c-section-scar was a part of you and Jaehyun loved every single bit. “You’re so beautiful,” he let out, and you believed every single syllable.

He had you tightly embraced with your legs around his waist when he slowly but deliberately pushed into you. At first, it hurt quite a bit, because you hadn’t had been this intimate in so long, but when it showed on your face with a frown, Jaehyun paused and made sure you still truly wanted this with soft kisses on your temple and mouth, so that the tightness vanished almost right away.

He was settled inside of you, thick, full, and pulsing, and even though this was so much for you to take already, you wanted him to move, needed him to move. When he didn’t instantly do so though, you nearly embarrassingly pushed up against him and tried to get a tiny bit of gratification by yourself.

Jaehyun laughed lowly and kind of threateningly. “Take deep breaths first, because you are in for a long ride.”

You winced when he pulled out and only let his tip remain, because you feared he would stop right here, but then met him with a breathless gasp when he slammed back into you full force. It cost you all the air in your lungs, but you needed him to do it again as well, because it had hit a spot you had always been convinced had never existed for you in the first place.

But it did. And Jaehyun penetrated it with every thrust that he alternated between fast and shallow and slow and deep. The couch’s cushion got wet and sticky under you, and your screams only grew louder too, but you didn’t mind and didn’t care, especially not when he suddenly flipped you over and you were sitting on him, having him sheathed deep inside your core.

“You’re so beautiful”, Jaehyun repeated. He stretched out his hand and curled a lock of your hair between his fingers that he then slid down along your breast, scar and let it eventually rest on your hip. “Ride me,” he then pleaded, “ride me, please.”

Despite the fact that you had never done that before, the motions came to you naturally with the guidance of his grip around your waist. It felt good for you to decide how deep and in which angle you wanted to have him, and as you were sliding along him, you felt another orgasm nearing that you unfortunately failed to chase.

“Out of breath?” Jaehyun asked, lids heavy after enjoying this sight too much.

“I want to cum again,” you confessed, “but somehow…”

Jaehyun returned to his former position, but this time, placed either of your legs across his left and right shoulder. You didn’t know what else he was doing, but when he filled you all up from the inside again, you were feeling him so deeply and intensely like never before. 

The second orgasm for this day found its root not in the pit of your stomach, but feeded on every inch of your body, so that it was an experience that left you shaking with all limbs, Jaehyun following along in long spurts across your stomach. 

“I’ve never imagined sex to be like this,” you admitted when you laid in his arms shortly later, a thin blanket draped over you. The office had long closed. 

“Like what?” Jaehyun asked and kissed your temple.

“So good.”

He laughed and pulled you closer to him. “That was not even my best performance yet, trust me.”

You opened your mouth in wonder. “You can do it even better? I can hardly believe it.”

“You want to try?” he challenged. “Don’t worry, we have all the time in the world to try out everything you want.”

“Okay,” you agreed. “All the time in the world, for sure. But maybe we can still start with it tonight. You never know-”

You didn’t have to call out to him twice before he disappeared under the blanket.

____

“I must say, I’m impressed. I didn’t expect this from you.”

The photos landed in front of your feet.

They showed everything.

Jaehyun and you entering your home dressed all in black, Jaehyun and you leaving the bar together, Jaehyun and you in the car in front of your parents’ house, Jaehyun and you coming out of his office at different occasions. There were even photos from yesterday after you both had…

You stood in the living room, petrified, not even your eyes were able to move to look directly at the person that was approaching you.

“You must wonder how much truth someone can spill when you just offer them more bribery money than the original party,” your mother-in-law said. “Needless to say, the security guard no longer needs his job here after providing me with the respective videos. And the rest was the dedicated work of my private detective. I sensed that something was off and hired him shortly after reading the police report on the seeming robbery.”

When you eventually lifted up your head, she stood there, looking at you with much disgust. It was at that moment that you realized you lost. She was holding the divorce papers in her hands. They had never reached your husband first, but had directly landed in her hands instead. 

“I don’t care,” you sighed deeply. “I don’t care anymore. I will sign anything, I am willing to lose everything. Just… let me go. Please, just let me go.”

You didn’t want the money, you didn’t need it. Money would come back, but time didn’t, and every bit of energy you still invested in this family felt like you were losing a bit of your lifespan. You just wanted to leave and live a life dedicated to your loved ones from now on. 

“Fine.” You halted, waiting for her to continue as you could almost not believe what she had just said. It couldn’t be so easy. “I am willing to let you out of this marriage, under one condition.”

Of course there would be. “What?”

“I’ve dedicated my entire life to keeping this family together,” she elaborated, “and my hard work paid off when I married off my first son well, making him the CEO of the conglomerate at the same time. My second one… well, he was always a little too spoiled and never under as much pressure as his older brother. But I let it pass, because as long as our reputation didn’t get stained, I wouldn’t look at it twice. I now wish I had as he only grew foolish and reckless. How else would he have gotten the idea of falling in love and getting an almost teenager pregnant out of wedlock?”

“This fact, we can agree on. But it was your fault that he grew up the way he is now,” you stated in defense. “He has never learned to deal with emotions, and whenever problems occurred, you were there to clean it all up regardless of the people getting hurt along the way. It was partially your family’s responsibility to make sure I was taken care of accordingly. The moment we married, I was your responsibility, too.”

Your mother-in-law screwed up her nose. “I did take care of these things my way.”

“And they were wrong!” you raised your voice, hoping that somehow, you could still speak some sense into her. “You pressured me to sign a contract of which its repercussions I could not have known at that time yet. It was my right to consult a lawyer, but I was never given a choice just like your son has never been given a choice. I was only nineteen and stripped of all my future!”

“A child out of wedlock would have destroyed everything I’ve worked so hard for,” she pressed through her gritted teeth, reluctant to admit this. “I did it all to protect my family!”

You shook your head. “And look at that family now. Was it all worth it? Was it worth the life you’re living right now?”

She didn’t know the answer to that apparently. “If you had only borne that child like my son wanted so desperately too, the problems would have all dissolved themselves. I would have endured you. Maybe you could have been a happy little family after all. But even for that, you were too weak.”

It stung. The insults pierced right through your heart, but you remembered Jaehyun’s words, and only grew from there. “No, we wouldn’t have been. I would have taken the child and filed for a divorce nonetheless, I know that now.”

“You ungrateful brat!” the elderly woman suddenly yelled. “Do you know how many girls out there would trade places with you? You’ve gotten everything someone could ever ask for, and for you it’s not enough!”

“Because there is more to this world than money and reputation!” you screamed back. “It’s not my fault you have failed to see it while you still had a choice, too!”

You were never able to forgive her, that much was true. But somewhere under her hard facade, you were sure, was hiding a young woman who had once dreamed big too. A young woman your age, who had dreamed of the love of her life and her own business. A young woman, who had been robbed of these dreams way too early and had never been given a choice either.

But that young woman had failed to escape as long as she still was able to, and got replaced by a monster that couldn’t figure its way out anymore, too entangled in a vicious circle that got passed on from generation to generation.

You wanted to break the circle and make your own choices. Perhaps, if you hadn’t gone through the past two years, you wouldn’t have had enough courage to feel like this now. Perhaps, if you hadn’t gone through the past two years, you would have turned out like her.

The trauma had made you weak, but also much stronger at the same time. You still didn’t understand, but in some way, you were grateful.

And the fact that you were now able to walk away was the reason you would always and forever remain superior to your mother-in-law.

“You must really love that lawyer of yours,” she eventually broke through your thoughts. “I just wonder how far you are willing to go for him to fulfill your condition?”

____

“Did you get your important papers?” Jaehyun happily greeted you when he opened the door to his office. “You’re back so early, is everything okay?”

The moment you hurried in his direction, he immediately knew that something was wrong. He put his index finger under your chin and angled up your head. The way your entire world shattered when he forced you to hold your gaze indicated that nothing would ever be okay again. 

“You have to leave, Jaehyun,” you insisted and grabbed onto his arms. “Right now.”

He didn’t ask any questions, but trusted you fully on that. “Okay, let me just get my-”

“No.” You shook your head. “The country. You have to leave the country immediately.”

Now, he was stunned. “I don’t understand.”

“My mother-in-law knows everything,” you uttered with a trembling voice. You told him about all the bribery and the detective, and eventually about her ultimatum. “She has collected a record of illegal activities reported against you, and she will go to the police with all of it to file a charge of your criminal activities. They have connections there, Jaehyun. She promised me if she wants, she will get you in jail. Is it true? Everything on the list?”

You recited a few bullet points you had been able to remember in a whim the short moment she was holding the paper in front of you. You directly saw it in his eyes, that fact that everything was as bad as it sounded. Robbery, data corruption, forgery, lying in front of the court… you named it.

“Oh god…” You needed a moment and sat down on the couch. “Jaehyun, she can really put you in jail!”

“Then I’ll leave the country!” he instantly caved. “We can live in New York or LA instead. I’ll book the next flight, we don’t need anything. We will just start anew.”

But by your expression alone, he understood that this was only wishful, silly thinking. Only one of you could be free, and you weren’t willing to trade his freedom for yours. He had always been free, you had always been caged. You didn’t rob the person you loved of their freedom like your husband had done.

“No… Don’t make that face. You’re not gonna stay married to him.”

“Jaehyun…”

He sank on his knees in front of you, taking your hands into his. “Then I will go to jail if it means you can get divorced to your advantage. How many years can I get anyway? I did many things wrong in the past and I don’t want to be this kind of person anymore. I will legally atone for my crimes. If it means that you’re going to be free and live a happy life, then I am willing to do so.”

“I won’t ever be able to live a happy life if it is without you. I don’t care about my money or my business anymore, Jaehyun. It will all come back, I still have time for this stuff. None of these matter now. What I care about is you. I won’t allow them to take you away from me. They took so much from me already. I can’t lose you too and rip you of your future and prospects like they did with me. It’s not worth it.”

“But I’m worth it?” he asked breathlessly. “How do you know? How do you know you won’t regret everything again?”

You wrapped your fingers around his neck and pulled him nearer to you. “Because you were willing to understand my pain and connect to my past. Because you left flowers on my baby’s grave and reunited me with my family. Because without you, I wouldn’t have had the courage to do all this. Nobody has ever gone through such lengths for me. If this is not true love, then I don’t want to live in a world this deluded.” You pressed your forehead against his. “And because I truly love you too, Jaehyun, I am willing to sacrifice this all.”

He reluctantly added, “There is another way out… There must be.”

There was a hint of a faint smile on your face. “There is not.”

“There is always!” he opposed, almost desperately.

Jaehyun sank onto the cushion next to you and buried his face in his palms. Was that what defeat felt like? He had expected it to hit him hard and knock him off his feet like a wave. Instead, defeat felt like drowning. Slow, torturous drowning.

“Perhaps, but not now, not for us. If only we had been given a bit more time… But I was selfish and pushed too far, and if you don’t leave the country now, you will go to jail. And if I leave with you, then all my beloved ones will pay the price, too. The damage would be more collateral. I cannot allow this to happen, so I will stay.”

“Promise me you won’t stop fighting.” He looked at you through heavy-lidded eyes. “That you will still fight for your freedom with every help you can get. Promise me you will never give up.”

You were trying so hard to keep your composure, but ultimately all your walls broke and you were crying hot tears in Jaehyun’s arms. He held you tightly for what might be the last time ever as you repeated,

“I will keep fighting.”

____

Jaehyun had made a decision. 

For that decision, he was currently collecting every tiny piece of evidence possible from his entire career as a divorce attorney. 

He had always been very structured, detailed and thorough with his records, which was why it didn’t take him long to find stuff that would be enough to lock him up for years. And he kept digging so as to not leave room for the police to find more than he would hand over. If he came clear with everything and turned himself in, punishment wouldn’t be so hard and he could see you again in a few years time. 

You didn’t want this, he knew, but in a hopeless situation, this was the scenario that was the most hopeful.

Ironically, Jaehyun thought to himself, he had never been a person full of hope before meeting you.

“Can I come in?”

A monotonous male voice interrupted him, and he absent-mindedly answered, “I’m busy and we’re already out of the office hours. Come back tomorrow.”

“I just assumed you might want to read through these papers right now, checking whether I signed everything right.”

Jaehyun had never heard your husband’s voice in real life before, but now that he had and looked up from his desk, he found it really matched his face. It was dull and boring, even though he was a conventionally good-looking, well groomed man in his early thirties - that much he was able to judge objectively considering he hated him to the core.

“I don’t know whether you’re stupid or brave coming here,” Jaehyun said coldly. “I’ll just freely assume it’s both.”

Mr. Kang let a bag, that Jaehyun only noticed now, drop on the floor, not reacting to his taunt at all. By your stories alone, he already got the impression that your husband wasn’t a man of many words… or emotions and expression at all. 

“Inside here are a few clothes, her documents, ID and passport. She wanted to get these this morning, right? And here are the signed divorce papers.” He dropped the staple on Jaehyun’s desk. “I’ve already consulted my lawyer. Whatever she’s asking for, she will get. I will agree on everything.”

Jaehyun drew the paper across the surface closer to him. He turned a few pages and realized that no alterations had been made so far. And Mr. Kang’s signature was right there as well.

“Where did you get this?”

“What my mother has gotten into her hands was a mere copy. The original documents had been handed over to me by the messenger the same day you had sent them out. I apologize that it took me so long. It was a decision easily made, but not easy to get through with my family. But my brother was very supportive and still is. My mother on the other hand, not so much when she will find out tomorrow. I’ll deal with it.”

Jaehyun closed the documents again and heaved up his head. “So… that’s all?”

“No.” Mr. Kang quietly shook his head, continuing with his initial monotonous tone, “I cannot prevent her from filing a police report against you, and knowing her, she will directly do so first thing in the morning when I confront her with the facts. That’s why you have to make haste and leave the country. Here.” He placed a very obvious plane ticket on the desk that was booked under Jaehyun’s name, dated for today still.

It was not the first time Jaehyun was hearing these words, yet he stood by his decision. “I won’t leave like a coward. I will cooperate and get the punishment I deserve.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” Mr. Kang said, a little more emotion in his voice now. “Do you think when you get released, it will all be over? It’s only going to start from then on. You will not only lose your practice license, but everyone dear to you too. You will never have a day of peace, and therefore, she won’t either. You don’t want that life for her.”

Again, Jaehyun felt hopelessness choking him. He was willing to suffer the rest of his life for all of his wrongdoings if he must. He just didn’t want to drag you down with him. “What should I do?”

“Go far, far away from here. Don’t leave any trace and wait until the divorce is finalized until you let her come to you. I guess you have partners or assistants that can take over the legal parts for you in your firm. Anyway, I will make sure we will push through with the contract that you have set up.”

Jaehyun knew this was the silver lining in a near desperate situation. “Can I still tell her goodbye?”

“If you want to ever see her again, then you must leave right now. The plane departs at midnight.”

“How do I know I can trust your words?”

“Indeed, there is no way you can. But you don't have a choice.”

“Can I at least trust you to make sure she will be alright until she can come to me?”

“Yes,” Mr. Kang confirmed, and for the first time, Jaehyun could make out a clear expression etched into his face. Relief? “After all, I have given her a promise at our wedding. I will keep her safe until it’s all over. You’re not the only one, I want to atone for all my mistakes too. I just want you to know that I have truly loved her. I just wasn’t capable of showing up when I was needed. So I’m happy for her that someone is now.”

“I think this is something you have to tell her in person yourself. And many more things, probably.”

Mr. Kang nodded. 

It was not Jaehyun’s place to judge other people’s relationships. What you had truly felt for each other at one point in your lives, it was up to you both to make out with yourselves - or not. Jaehyun just didn’t want you to hurt any longer. Everything else was irrelevant to him.

“Don’t expect a thank you, Mr. Kang.”

“I’m not. I’m not expecting anything from you, Mr. Jeong.”

Jaehyun hurriedly grabbed the most important documents from his desk and the shelves all while preparing to drop by at his home real quick to pick up his passport. “Can you tell her something from me? Or not… whatever you want to do.” He had seldomly felt so at a loss for the right words. “If you are willing to pass on my message though… She will arrive here soon and I need to be gone by then... Tell her to not come and say goodbye. I will contact her when it’s safe. I hope it won’t take long.”

“This, I will do,” he confirmed. “For her.”

____

Jaehyun had only packed a small bag with a few clothing pieces, some cash and important documents, nothing more. The papers he was taking with him included a specific file that gave him access to a secret bank account in another country into which he had booked different amounts of money any time he won a case. It wasn’t as much as his real asset, but it came close and was definitely enough to start anew somewhere else. 

“Do you carry any liquids in your bag, sir?”

Jaehyun shook his head. He had already put his bag and jacket on the tray, patting his pockets one last time to look for remaining items he still had to get rid of before passing the security.

“Jaehyun!”

Brushing it off as an intrusive thought, he continued with his motions, until he heard again, this time from a clearly familiar voice,

“JEONG JAEHYUN! HOW DARE YOU!”

When he turned around, he caught you verbally fighting with the employees who checked the board pass before passengers moved on to the security. “Let me go, I have to talk to that person!”

“You need a ticket to pass through here, ma’am,” one of them carefully explained to you, flinching any time you made a move as he surely couldn’t estimate your outburst.

“Fine! Then I’ll buy one! Hurry up!”

“To buy a ticket, you have to go the counter and-”

“I don’t have time for that. Jaehyun!”

He didn’t have enough time to process everything of the scenario that was now unfolding in his sight. You really dared to push one employee aside who then stumbled into the other one’s arms. And before they could catch onto what was currently happening to them, you had already dropped your purse, gripped the railing with two hands and just jumped over the barricade like it was nothing. 

In the background, Jaehyun perceived how the employees slowly caught onto the happenings after the initial shock and apparently called for backup with their walkie-talkies. Luckily, the TSA hadn’t caught wind of your unruly behavior yet as both sections were partially separated by walls, so Jaehyun left everything on the tray behind and ran towards you as you were doing the same. 

Quickly, he grabbed your hand and dragged you to one corner of the hall, right between these two airport sections, where it would take either party the longest time to arrive.

“Why are you here?” Jaehyun asked, nearly out of breath when you came to a standstill. “You’re supposed to pick up your bag from my office and go to your parents’ house!”

“I know but I couldn’t!” You squeezed his hand. “You were really going to leave without giving me a chance to say goodbye? How dare you!”

“I’m sorry, I just…” Only when he was at the check-in, it had dawned on him that he had made the wrong decision. Even if your husband had warned him, he should have taken that risk. That much, you owed the person you loved. “I’m just not good at saying goodbye. I didn’t know what to say… even now, I don’t know.”

“Please don’t do this! Don’t strip me of my choice! Not you too!”

Jaehuyn shook his head and cupped your face. “I would never do that! I would have called or texted you right when I arrived. Even if it was risky. I just cannot bear… yeah, this. I didn’t want to see you cry again. This time it’s my fault.”

With his thumbs, he brushed over your cheeks, wiping away your tears. From the corners of his eyes, he already saw the fetched security arriving at the section, looking in your direction. There was not much time left anymore.

“This is my choice,” you said under tears. “You are my choice. And if you don’t come back, Jaehyun, I will fly over there myself, are we in the clear?”

He chuckled and you cracked a faint smile as well. “I believe you. I don’t think we need a contract for that. It may take a bit of time… so will you wait for me?”

“I will always wait for you. That’s what I said, right? I will wait for my true love, no matter how much time it takes. Just please, if you can, don’t take too long.”

Jaehyun wrapped his arms around you and pressed you against his chest. The security was already approaching you, but they weren’t running, possibly because they had already sensed there was no danger radiating from you. Just two people in love who needed to say one last goodbye to each other.

“I’ll hurry up,” he muttered into your hair and placed a kiss on your parting. “In the meantime, go back to university, get your degree and work hard for your business, but don’t forget to live your life, too. I want to return in time for your graduation ceremony.”

“Jaehyun…” You looked up to him with big, tear-filled eyes. “Then I will work hard so that it won’t take long.”

Eventually, the security reached them. “Ma’am, we have to kindly ask you to leave.” 

Jaehyun let go of you before the two security men would drag you away from him themselves, and you unwillingly let him. “I promise I’ll be there!”

“I rely on your word!” you were still able to say before following the security out. “I love you!”

“I love you too.”

____

Police investigations started shortly after Jaehyun landed in the US. They were looking for him the next two years, and you had to stay apart for just as long.

He missed the moment you finalized your divorce after a year.

He missed the moment you re-entered university that same year.

He missed the moment you graduated with your degree a year later.

He missed every single important moment in your life.

____

‘GRAND OPENING’

was written on the fancy border that hung over the entrance door to your small shop. 

You hadn’t expected for five people to already show up at the opening hour sharp, but you were well prepared and handed them a glass of champagne each. You walked them around, presenting to them a few of your hand-picked pieces.

There were gowns with reserved, classic cuts, more elaborate gowns with a lot of tulle, short skirts, long sleeved dresses, tight and wide dresses, and a broad selection of accessories like veils and gloves in addition.

“My heart lies within this shop,” you explained to the group of women. “I want to gather as many different styles as possible to suit everyone’s preferences. After all, it’s going to be the happiest day of your life, and you shouldn’t only look beautiful, but also feel comfortable. Whatever you want to add or alternate on your overall look, me and my team will accommodate that. Please feel free to look around and call for me if you need my assistance.”

You moved behind the counter and looked excitedly at your first possible customers, being happy to share this day with the people special to you too as later on, your family and friends would pay you a visit for the official opening party. 

There was always one person missing though, and whenever you thought of it, your heart got so heavy.

The opening of your own bridal shop was another milestone in your life that Jaehyun was missing. Even though two months ago it was announced that the Aewha Group had gone bankrupt because of a tax fraud having been committed over the years, he had still deemed it unsafe to return and wanted to wait a bit more. 

You wondered why and slowly grew impatient as the police had already stopped pushing the case forward because of the lack of evidence as almost no one wanted to testify against him. Since the Aewha Group was now down as well and the owners had a fair share of other, graver problems to deal with, you had proposed to him to come pay you a visit.

“It’s too dangerous,” Jaehyun had said.

“Then I’ll come!” 

Again, he had said, “You don’t have to. Soon, I can return.”

But when was ‘soon’ anyway as he’d been saying it for a year already?

In secret, you had already bought a plane ticket to California for next month. Two years had already passed in which you couldn’t see each other, and if it continued, then you would be the one to go to jail for other reasons, you knew that, and those reasons included kidnapping the man you loved.

After an entire day of working where you had been successful to make fitting appointments with three bridal groups, it was time for the opening party. You saw your parents, grandparents, friends and other acquaintances, not only from the past, but also from the last two years, walk into your shop, gazing at the garments and celebrating with you.

There were beverages and snacks being served, everyone was dressed up and music was playing in the background. It was a gathering among the people close to you to celebrate the success you had been working so hard for the past two years.

You knew that, if you hadn’t met a certain person, you wouldn’t be standing here right now, giving a speech to your loved ones. But after all the trauma and pain, you were here, bright and successful with a future just as promising.

You just wished the person you were the most grateful for could have joined as well.

“Thank you so much for coming and celebrating with me. Please enjoy tonight,” you ended your speech.

“There is something I have to say too,” someone said in the background, and the hair on your neck suddenly stood up. “Actually, there is so much I have to say, but I will try to keep it short.”

Only after a few seconds, you were able to break through the petrification. From the corner of your peripheral, you saw your friends giggling and your parents looking at you lovingly. Before you met his gaze eventually, tears already started to burn on the rim of your eyes. 

You felt his warm hand on your naked arm, his fingers slowly sliding down to intertwine with yours. It had been so long since you had last seen each other in person, but as you now stood in front of Jaehyun, it felt like no time had passed at all.

He was just as handsome and well built as two years ago. If anything, he looked even better. Maturity suited him so well. He was smiling at you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to mirror his expression with the same intensity, because different emotions washed over you all at once, so that you didn’t know how to feel at first.

You wanted to get angry at him and yell at him why it had taken him so long.

You wanted to wrap your arms around his neck and have him hold you tightly.

You wanted to kiss him deeply and get undressed to feel every inch of him.

In the end, you didn’t do anything but start crying. It was all just too much.

“Why are you here?” you asked, still believing it was all not real.

You felt him squeezing your fingers. “I just couldn’t miss another milestone of yours.”

“Why did it take you so long?”

“There were a few things I needed to sort out before I could return. Finding someone to take over my law office, for example. Just the formals.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, you idiot? I bought a ticket for next month!”

He threw his head back and laughed. “That’s what I sensed and came here as fast as possible.”

“How long are you going to stay?” you sniffed.

“This time, I hope forever.” You saw him move in your blurry vision and blinked through your tears. Or better say, you saw it blinking in front of your eyes as he was holding a ring in front of you. “If you let me be your husband, of course. So… will you? Will you accept me as your husband?”

You pouted. “Where are we going to live?”

“Here, of course.”

“And you’re not on the run anymore?”

“I will only do stuff according to ethics, morals and the law.”

“Can I plan the wedding myself?”

At this point, you were only teasing him, but after what he had put you through, he let you. “You can do whatever you want, I will say yes to everything my wife says.”

“Very well.” You paused. “Under one condition.”

“Hm?”

Then, you broke into a wide smile. Those tears on your face had always only been happy tears. “We will never set up a prenup.”

“Of course,” Jaehyun agreed. “Because we will never get divorced anyway.”

Then, you finally fell into his arms and kissed him deeply. It was like two missing pieces coming together, a surge of complete bliss streaming through your bodies the moment your lips met. This, this was it. This was what it must feel like to finally be with your true love. You never wanted to be apart again. 

The ring looked beautiful on your finger, and as you both turned around to show it to your guests, you saw in their reactions that they had been let in on the planned happenings of this night quite a while ago. 

Your opening party had magically turned into your engagement party.

[moonlight-prose]

a request, if i may, of praising old man logan as he filfthly eats you out and it makes him combust the more you praise him? okay running away again

speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life

a/n: look at him taking off his glasses in absolute shock of this ask- no okay does old man logan have a praise kink? i would raise it higher and say every version of logan has a massive praise kink. this is a man who wants to know he's doing good in life. his love language is acts of service so he might get to hear a pretty thank you. also i'm not sorry for how feral this got. i have no explanation.

summary: he knew he loved you when your words begin to piece his heart back together. he knew he loved you when he flourishes at your praise. he knew he loved you when nothing in this world could matter but the sound of your voice telling him you love him too.

word count: 3k+

pairing: old man!logan x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, oral (f receiving), praise kink, logan is obsessed, dirty talk via reader, he is so pretty when he blushes, manhandling, cumplay, cumeating, overstimulation, crying, he's needy in this one, angst, tortured soul of an old man, reverence, religious trauma + greek mythology hints.

He can feel the strings of fate pull tight around his broken heart. In a failed attempt to draw him back together. To piece together an organ that barely beat for him anymore. He might have felt it once, before it broke. Before it gnarled itself like the branches of a dying tree, one half twisting away from the other in a desperate attempt of survival.

He deemed it a useless part of his body until you came along. You with your smile that held enough cloying sweetness to choke him as he stood helpless. Silently begging for you to say his name. To bring him back to life.

Whatever horrors that plagued his mind—endless nightmares that promised nothing but anguish—suddenly came crashing to a halt at the sight of you. So pretty in your denim jeans and velvet top. An angel seated in the center of a bar that held more filth than you deserved to be near. Logan couldn’t fathom that luck struck him this hard.

Not when death had already claimed his soul; notched yet another tally in the endless wall of people that came before.

He felt the dirt pack under his nails as he clawed his way out of the grave he put himself in. Years spent alone—a man lost to the ravages of time—had turned him bitter. With rough edges and biting words that stung far more than he intended. How could he believe he deserved to live after he contributed so much to the endless pool of blood that tainted his soul? How was he allowed such softness after biting off bits of brutality his whole life?

Logan was pretty sure he survived on borrowed time that had already run out. He could feel death breathe down his neck as the days went on. A reminder that what little of his life remained would be spent suffering. And he found that accepting it was easier than battling against the will of God, or whoever toyed with his lifeline.

It was far easier to die than find a reason to live.

Until you said his name.

Softly. Sweetly. Reverence wrapped in a tight grasp of need.

You brought him back from the edge—took his hand and refused to take no for an answer. You and the safety of your touch; the promise in your kiss. You dragged him into a life he didn’t earn; one that almost tasted too sweet—too sour.

After near a decade of being buried beneath the dirt, he felt himself collapse above ground and suck in his first real gasp of fresh air. Alive, once more. Hell spit him out with a vow of love and who was he to argue against it.

His fingers dug into your plush thighs, tugging them open to see what lay between. He marveled at their softness, eyes wide and awestruck at the sight of you spread beneath him. You practically glowed in the dim light of the bedside table. Yellow, musty, yet angelic when it caressed your body with its heavenly touch.

He wondered if this was real life; your nails digging sharply into his shoulders gave him the answer.

"Logan," you sighed, voice high with need.

The strings pulled taught. A vice like hold that drew him to you.

Maybe that's what this unutterable feeling was. The gnawing pit at the bottom of his heart. A greed he'd never indulged before—too afraid of what it might ask for next. He wasn't a man who asked for much. Rather someone that found himself far too content with nothing. But tonight he found his lips forming the words of a false prayer that his mother taught him as a child.

Hail the angel in his bed. Hail every good fucking thing you brought into his life.

His teeth sunk into your thigh, body jolting at your responding moan. Fingers dug into his hair, tugging at the mussed locks with a high pitched whine. You were a needy little thing, but Logan found he desperately wanted to be needed.

He smiled laving his tongue over the tender spot, working his way up to where you dripped for him.

So slick. So perfect.

Saliva filled his mouth. "What do ya want baby?"

Your chest heaved; he could feel the heat of your body under his palms. "Your m-mouth Logan."

His eyes trailed along your brow covered in a sheen of sweat. The room was thick with the humid air of the outside world. But that didn't deter him from craving your skin near his. The pressure of your thighs around his head a welcome weight. If he sunk his teeth in where the curve of your leg met your hip he knew he could draw out that soft choking noise he longed to hear on days spent driving alone.

If he had his way he'd crawl into you to seek your serenity straight from the source. He'd never divulge about the ache that chewed him up on the inside, but Logan wondered if you knew. Could you tell how much he craved you? How much he couldn't live without you.

When your glittering eyes met his, the resolve he spent years building cracked like glass. You peered into him as if he was a stained glass window. A god you were more than happy to worship.

"You want me to lick this pretty pussy?" Fuck, he sounded drunk off your taste already.

His mouth hovered over your throbbing clit, your scent now filling his senses. Overwhelming him with what he wanted most. But he needed to hear it. The lilt of your begging; the soft echo of your need that washed over him like soothing river water.

He couldn't live without it.

"Yes," you sobbed, thigh twitching.

The string sliced his heart open, blood pooling onto the white bed sheets. Oh what a sweet death your love made. Oh...what a bittersweet way to go.

He'd die right now if you asked him to. Hand over his heart on a silver platter if you so wished it. Maybe that made him far too gone for his own good, but Logan couldn't remember a time in his life where he got this. Safety. The hope of love burning far too bright and far too hot for him to fly near it.

Yet there he was. Icarus happily soaring in your sun like glow.

"I got ya honey," he murmured. "Gonna take care of what's mine."

You nodded frantically—tears welling up in your eyes. "You take care of me Logan."

The breath in his chest stuttered, eyes dark as the words fell past your swollen lips. He wanted to explain why his cock twitched against his stomach. Why he now leaked into the sheet with heavy panted breaths. But every time he came up short with the words needed to form an answer.

"Yeah I do sweetheart," he breathed. "Don't I?"

"Uh-huh."

"Take care of what belongs to me."

There was no warning when his hands dragged you closer with a rough tug, mouth closing over your clit with a desperate suck. A cry wrenched from your mouth, sparks sharply traveling down your spine. He licked through your slick with a growl. Hands an unbreakable press against your thighs.

The sight of your body bowed, mouth open for small gasped breaths that never came, snapped something in his mind. He was an old man. Well past his years. But the taste of your pussy along his tongue brought back a ferocity he often tamped down in his younger age. He felt the feral want claw at his chest, and answered it with a broken snarl.

Swallowing down every drop you gave him, he plunged his tongue into your entrance, thrusting messily until a smear of your shiny slick began to coat his mouth. It covered his cheeks and clung to the hair of his beard. He'd clean it out later, taste you on his tongue until he was aching for another go. But for now he was preoccupied with the way you cried for him.

"Oh fuck!" Your thighs trembled over his shoulders, hips canting down to drag yourself along his tongue. "So good."

He shuddered, eyes rolling back at the sound of your praise. You caught it within seconds, lips pulling into a breathless smile that left him gasping for air. His teeth nipped at your thigh briefly as his hips ground into the mattress below.

"You like that baby?" you breathed, thumb smearing your own slick against his cheek.

Something hot washed over his body. A needy sick and twisted ache that he'd never indulged in before. He wanted to be a good man to you; longed to be needed. And fuck if you didn't give him everything.

You were his walking wet dream. His future handed off and wrapped in a neat little bow.

"L-Love your tongue Logan-" A high gasp tore from your throat when he dived back in. Slurping at your clit with a heady moan as you dragged him closer. "Taking care of me so well."

His hips canted down into the bed, fucking his cock along the warmth of his stomach, as you gushed into his mouth again. Eyes zeroed in on your face, pupils dilated as he growled into your flesh. You no longer could see the man you loved, but the feral side he tamped down during the day. The animal he longed to release in your presence.

"Fuck I'm gonna cum."

His arms looped around your thighs and with a sharp yank, he had his face buried deep enough to suffocate himself. You sobbed an incoherent version of his name. Nails clawed at his shoulders, but Logan could feel the pulse of your clit under his tongue.

He sucked it into his mouth with a grunt, rolling it along his tongue as you trembled with the oncoming shocks of an orgasm that threatened to destroy you.

Tears dripped down your cheeks and Logan felt the satisfying part of his heart begin to stitch itself back together. The strings were tight enough to numb his pain. To quell the flare of agony.

That used to be all he knew, all he counted on most days. When there was nothing left and he'd propped the shovel in the dirt—his grave open and waiting—he stumbled right into your arms. He found his reason for living.

Heat curled around his spine as you shook with the impending orgasm—the stimulation on your clit practically debilitating. He grunted into your soaked flesh, eyes narrowed as he chased the release that pulled his stomach taut. But this wasn't for him to indulge in; this wasn't his pleasure.

So with a throaty moan you felt reverberate along your body, he scraped his teeth along your clit and watched as your body went stiff.

"Logan!" you cried, fingers scrambling for purchase on any part of him you could reach.

You gushed into his awaiting mouth, praises of it's so good, you're so good falling upon his ears like the whimpered prayers of a devout worshiper thanking your god.

"Taste so fuckin' good," he mumbled, drunk on what you gave him.

He didn't care that you were jolting with each pass of his tongue along your pussy. He didn't care that you were shocked with overstimulation, small broken cries of his name muffled by the press of your thighs against his ears. He licked at you until he couldn't breathe. Buried his tongue into your twitching entrance and sucked out your cum with a happy hum.

"P-Please." You tugged at his hair, pulling him off you with a sob. "I-I can't anymore Logan."

"'M not fuckin' finished," he said, eyes glazed and face coated in your slick.

You made a mess of his face. The light catching along where you spilled into his mouth and along his throat. And still he wanted more. He'd spend hours between your thighs, burning your skin with his beard, if it meant he could divulge in your sweetness.

"It hurts-"

A grunt rumbled in his chest, his arms tugging you back even as your feet kicked along his back. "Just one more honey. Yeah?"

You shook your head. "B-But-"

"Thought you said it was good."

"It is."

"Then lemme be good for you." He wanted to tell you that the world went quiet between your thighs. That all his grief, all his pain, lessened when you sobbed his name.

He wanted to show you the string that looped his heart to yours—the only thing keeping him alive—and thank you for bringing him back from the dead. But words weren't his forte. Violence had become the only tenderness he knew and you didn't deserve the rough edges of an old man. You should have more.

But when you let him touch you like this—caress your skin and lick between your folds—he felt as if he was a man who finally was worthy of someone as precious as you. He could pretend he didn't bear the brunt of a fucked up soul.

The weight on his chest lifted when your tear filled gaze met his and you nodded. Small, barely there, but it was enough for him to seal his mouth back over you with a ragged moan. Your body shook as his tongue slid through the seam of your pussy. The tip nudging against your clit—careful to draw the pleasure from your body slowly.

He didn't want to give you pain. His heart wouldn't survive that. But he was a broken man; someone who begged for more even as his teeth sunk into what was already given.

You were his meal. His sacrament in the midnight hours until dawn broke across the darkened sky. You were the other half of his soul.

How could he not indulge in your sweetened tang until his tongue went stiff?

"I love you," you sighed, eyes rolled back when he sucked at your pussy, a wet low moan echoing in the air. "My p-perfect husband."

The cold press of his wedding band against your thigh drove him over the edge. You weren't officially married. Didn't have the backyard wedding with a preacher to match. But Logan had placed a ring on your finger near a year ago, sliding one over his own with the vow of forever cemented in his words.

Even if that didn't mean much in the eyes of a god who abandoned him near a century ago.

"Oh-"

Your head tipped back, mouth dropping open as his fingers dipped into your wet heat. Thrusting lazily until he found the spongey patch along your walls—driving the pad of his middle finger into it with a needy moan.

He knew it wouldn't take long for you to fly off the edge of a second release. That didn't make watching you climb to that peak any less satisfying. The sight appeased his soul. It gave him a chance to breathe; let him know that after so much bad—after so much pain—he could do something good. He could bring you to the edge of pleasure and drag you over again and again.

He could finally be the man you believed he was.

Not the animal they created.

"C'mon," he muttered. Eyes fixed on the shape of your breasts as your body curved off the bed. Hips dragging along his face with a stunted cry.

A wail bounced off the walls, piercing his eardrums with the symphony of your cries. His fingers rapidly pumped into you with a squelch that had heat burning his cheeks—lips pulling your throbbing clit into his mouth as you broke. The climax slammed into you; battering your already swollen pussy.

Logan could feel his cock swell at the sight.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grunted, teeth bared as he clambered to his knees and wrapped his fist soaked in your slick around his leaking cock. "'M gonna cum sweetheart."

Your eyes fluttered open, fingers digging into his thigh. "Please. Wanna see it baby. Look so pretty when you cum Logan."

His chest tightened, body shaking while you watched in rapture as he fucked his fist rapidly. He wouldn't fucking last, could feel the burning consume his body, but something held him back. The string around his heart yanked him away from the edge, tearing a cry from his throat when his frustration peaked.

You could see it—the glimmer of need in his dark eyes. This wasn't the first time he longed for your words. It certainly wouldn't be the last.

So you spread your legs and sat up slowly—arms wrapping around his shoulders to bring his lips down to yours. A soft moan was muffled by your mouth; the peak of his release within reach. He could practically feel the tips of his fingers graze it.

"Cover my pussy baby," you mumbled into his mouth. "Be good for me and mark what's yours."

The growl came from the very bottom of his chest when he finally came. Your name was a bitten out snarl pressed to your mouth in an open mouth kiss as he spurted over his knuckles. He pumped his cock to milk every drop; eyes fixed on the way it covered the swollen lips of your pussy. Dripping down to your entrance that fluttered at the sight of his sweaty and crimson tinged face.

"I fuckin' love ya honey," he murmured, hand cupping your chin to drag your lips back to his. "Best thing that's happened in my life is you."

You smiled, thumbs pressing to his cheeks. "Love you too Logan."

Clutching you close, he felt the string go loose. The breath finally rushing back into his lungs at the sight of your eyes glowing with the kind of light that brought him back to the first day The night he met you in that shitty bar—alcohol the only thing on his mind until he saw you.

The night you spoke his name over his covered grave and dragged him back to life with a smile.

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - TWO

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of possible pregnancy, of abortion, of pregnancy risks & death. self-loathing. chapter one ┆ chapter three ┆ chapter four

You lied.

You didn’t take the tests the next day.

Or the next. You couldn’t. Every time you picked up one of the stupid boxes, your heart would drop to the pits of hell and your hands would start sweating. You’d shove it back in the drawer like it could disappear if you just ignored it hard enough.

Once you knew, you knew. 

There was no more pretending as if nothing happened.

No more pretending like you didn't care that Rafe moved on like he didn’t just dump you, with no real closure and ran to the next girl he found. 

Fuck, why did he have to look so happy that night? He got to be carefree, living his perfect little life with her, and you were there, sitting on the bathroom floor, too scared to even pee on a stick.

What if it was positive? Then what? The thought of seeing his name pop up on your phone after you blocked him, or worse, hearing her voice if she picked up...you’d rather die. He didn't deserve to know.

He didn't deserve anything from you anymore.

You started googling abortion clinics before you even touched the tests. You could afford it. That wasn’t even the issue.

You had more money than you knew what to do with. Your inheritance was just sitting there. You could book a flight tomorrow, pay for whatever procedure, whatever it took—fly out of state, out of the country, if you had to. 

But that wasn’t the point. It has never been about the money. It was the overwhelming shame. The fear. The realization that Rafe might have left you, but he was still there, stuck in your head, in your body, in your fucking life. Even when he wasn’t.  

He didn’t have to worry about any of this. He was most likely out on the boat, not even thinking about you. Not thinking about what he did to you. 

And you— you were left with this. Sitting on a bathroom floor for hours a day, trying to figure out how you were supposed to make a decision that changed everything.

You started looking up clinics again, scrolling through the options, but your mind was barely even there. It was legal in North Carolina for now, but you read something about the 12-week ban they passed in June, and suddenly you were spiraling one more time, wondering how much time you even had. 

Could you wait? Could you put it off like you’d been putting off the tests, like if you waited long enough, maybe the problem would just... disappear? Shit, wouldn’t that be easier?

You heard that voice in your head, the one that sounded like your mom, at least what you remembered from watching old videos.

It was depressing how life didn’t let you hold tightly to your memories sometimes. She always reminded you of the kind of person you were supposed to be. The type of girl who had her shit together. The type of girl who didn’t get herself into situations like this, in the first place.

But instead, you were the girl who lost everything—the life you were supposed to have—and somehow, you’d still found a way to screw up what was left.

You kept scrolling like you couldn’t stop.

One page led to another, and soon you weren’t just looking up clinics—you were looking up everything. 

What happened during the procedure, how long it took, the side effects, the complications. You read horror stories about infections, about women who thought it was over and then bled for weeks, about people who changed their minds too late.

You even looked up what could happen if you didn’t get an abortion—what pregnancy could do to your body. And that was a whole other rabbit hole you didn’t need to go down. Your body changing, your hormones going insane. You thought about your boobs getting sore, your stomach stretching, the possibility of throwing up every morning, and it felt like your body was already betraying you. And then you read the serious stuff—gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, all these words you didn’t even know existed before that night. There was a minefield of things that could go wrong, things that would go wrong.

Complications. Risks. Dangers.

You read about women who almost died in labor. About miscarriages and stillbirths and the trauma of carrying a baby for months, only to lose it. You never even thought about that, how pregnancy wasn’t just this smooth, magical process people make it out to be. It was brutal. But you’d been the little sister, you never saw your mother go through it, or anyone for that matter.

Your younger cousin, Topper the bitching backstabber, had been born and raised in Los Angeles before he moved to Figure 8 when he was five. 

You were terrified—not just of being pregnant, but of what it meant to stay pregnant. Would your body even handle it? You’d always lived off coffee and takeout half the time. An unreasonable amount of parties. Too many drinks some nights.

You weren’t exactly the picture of health. What if you weren’t strong enough? What if something went wrong, and you ended up in a hospital bed, alone, because Rafe sure as fuck wouldn’t be there. It was just you.

For a second there, you thought you might pass out.

You’d thrown your phone across the room, it hit the wall with a thud, but it didn’t help. The anxiety was still there, vibrating under your skin, making you want to scream. You glanced at the bathroom drawer again, where the pregnancy tests were hidden like some cursed thing.

Maybe you should’ve just taken one.

Rip off the bandaid.

The stupid phone rang, like was having fun pissing you off, vibrating on the floor where you’d thrown it. You stared at it for a second, debating if you should even pick it up. You didn’t feel like dealing with anyone, especially not whoever was about to ask something from you.

But it kept ringing, and of course, it was a number you recognized—Lily, one of the coordinators from your dad’s foundation. Shit. You forgot about the gala. Again. The one that was happening in two freaking days, the one you haven’t even thought about preparing for.

You swiped to answer, “Yeah?”

“Hey, I didn’t want to bother you, but we need to go over the final details for the gala,” She greeted you, sounding way too perky for how you were feeling. “I really need your input on the seating arrangements, and the auction items, and—”

It hit you just how ironic this was. You were sitting here, freaking out about being possibly pregnant, scrolling through nightmare stories about abortion and pregnancy complications, while Lily was talking about a fundraiser for children’s health. Kids. It felt like some twisted repulsive joke the universe was playing on you.

You blinked back into the conversation, realizing she still talking, and you hadn’t said a word. “Uh, yeah, sorry. I’ve been busy. Can you just handle it?” you muttered, feeling guilty but not enough to actually deal with any of it.

“I’ve already taken care of most things,” she said carefully, “but we really need your approval on the final guest list and the speech. You’re the face of the foundation, after all.”

The face of the foundation. The legacy your dad left you. It was supposed to be this huge responsibility. And it was. You’d always taken it seriously. The one thing in your life you never ruined. But this year, you hadn’t written the speech yet. Jesus, you forgot it was even happening. And the guest list? No clue.

You rubbed your forehead, “I’ll look at it later. Just send it over.”

Lily hesitated again, probably sensing that something was off, you'd always been a control freak. “Okay, I’ll email it to you. Just let me know by tomorrow, alright?”

“Yeah, sure.”

You hung up before she could add anything else, staring at the ceiling. One more thing. One more responsibility piled on top of everything else. You were drowning in all these expectations—being the good daughter to dead parents, the responsible one, the perfect kook girl who was supposed to have everything. You were supposed to be the girl who had the trust fund, the perfect life, the foundation that helped kids in need.

You earned to be her.

Your phone buzzed again, this time with an email notification. You rolled your eyes, already knowing it was from Lily. She’d sent over the guest list, and you groaned, thinking you’d skim it, give it a half-assed glance, and send it back. But as you scrolled down the names, you stopped.

Rafe Cameron.

Of course, he was going to be there. Why wouldn’t he? His family had been involved in your dad’s foundation for years. It was like you couldn’t escape him.

The fucking nerve. To your gala. Your blood boiled instantly, your fingers gripping the phone so tight you almost cracked the screen.

Fuck him. 

If he thought he could just show up and rub his new life in your face, he had another thing coming. Without thinking twice, you deleted his name, erasing him like he didn’t even exist. And then, without checking another name, you sent the list back to Lily.

You didn’t give a shit if it was petty. You didn’t care if it wasn’t professional.

If Rafe wanted to play games, you’d ruin his life if you had to. He thought he could fuck you over, leave you with all this—leave you with nothing? No. You weren’t going to let him have that power.

Not over this. Not over you.

You were shaking now, but it almost felt good. Even if it was just a stupid guest list. Let him find out when he got there and there was no table for him. No seat. No fucking room. 

You still sat there staring at the screen with that stupid blinking cursor. The email from Lily sat open in front of you, and somewhere buried in the list of attachments was the speech. Blank.

Your speech—the one you were supposed to read at the gala in two days. The one you hadn’t even started writing.

This was always the hardest part. Writing it. Saying it. You used to cry every time. Standing in front of all those people, talking about your dad, your family, how the foundation was this beautiful way of keeping their memory alive. It was never just a speech—it was like ripping your heart out of your chest and letting everyone see it, year after year. It never got easier.

But Rafe, used to be there with you.

Every year. He’d sit with you while you struggled through every word, telling you it was okay to take your time, reminding you that you didn’t have to do it if you didn’t want to. And when the gala came, he was always by your side, standing just off stage, waiting for you after the speech was done. You’d run into his arms, and he’d whisper that you 'did great baby', holding you until the room stopped spinning so much.

You could still hear his voice in your head sometimes, 'you’re stronger than you think'.

That’s what he always said, even when you didn’t believe it. He’d hold you, kiss your forehead, and make you feel like it was true, like you really could get through it. He was always so sure of you. But this year? He wasn’t going to be there. He’d stop believing the lies he fed you. You were angry. You were seething. You were utterly alone.

You’d been avoiding this moment—writing.

This time around, it wasn’t just about the speech. It was about the fact that when you walked out of that stage, you wouldn’t have him waiting for you.

You’d step down into nothingness, with no one to catch you.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, but they wouldn’t move. What were you even supposed to say this year? How were you supposed to stand up in front of all those people and talk about love and family and legacy when yours was shattered?

You hated looking at yourself in the mirror, feeling like you’d lost every single piece of who you used to be.

Fuck the speech. Fuck the gala. Fuck Rafe Cameron and his stupid lies, his stupid smile, his stupid promises that he never kept.  

If he thought you were weak, if he thought he could break you, if he thought you were the same girl who used to cling to him like he was the only thing keeping you together—he was wrong.

You were going to do this without him.

You were going to stand up there and give that speech, no matter how much it hurt. And if it killed you, so be it. You’d still do it.

Because unlike him, you didn’t just walk away from the things that mattered. Even if it tore you apart. Even if it was killing you to keep pretending like you were fine. You weren’t fine. But you’d fake it. You’d fake it until the whole world believed it. 

You’d barely hit send on the email when your phone rang again, and this time it wasn’t Lily.

It was Topper. You hadn’t talked to him since that night—the night. The party where you’d found out, where you’d seen Rafe and Sofia together for the first time. Where you realized that everyone knew.

How he’d called Rafe over, like you needed him to fix it, like he was still yours to rely on.

“What?”

“Hey…” Topper’s voice was cautious, “I, uh, I wanted to call and apologize for the other night.”

You snorted, leaning your head back against the wall. “Yeah? For what part? For calling Rafe like his little bitch or for getting in front of my car when I was trying to leave?”

“I didn’t mean to fuck things up. I was just trying to stop you from doing something stupid.”

“Like what?” you snapped. “Leaving the party? Getting out of there before I had to watch him with her for one more second? Yeah, Top, real dumb of me.”

“You almost ran me over,” Topper shot back, his voice rising just a little, like he was offended you hadn’t mentioned that part. “Kinda felt like maybe you weren’t thinking straight.”

“You jumped in front of the car you fucking idiot. What the hell did you expect me to do? Slam on the brakes and listen to whatever bullshit you and Rafe had to say? Because trust me, ’m all out of patience for either of you.”

There was a sigh on the other end, the sound of him trying to not to lose his patentience, like he was the one in the right here. Typical Topper. Always wanting to smooth things over, play peacemaker between you and Rafe, like this was just another fight you’d get over.

He never really got it.

“Look,” Your cousin started, calmer this time, “I didn’t mean to call him. I just thought—”

“You always think calling him will fix things,” you cut in, “Like he’s the answer to every problem I have. He’s not. Not anymore.”

“I get that,” He added quickly, like he was afraid you’d hang up. “But I didn’t know what else to do! You were upset, and I thought maybe—”

“Maybe what? That he could swoop in and save the day?” You let out a bitter laugh. “He’s not your golden boy, Top. He doesn’t fix anything. He ruins things.”

Topper went quiet for a second, probably trying to figure out how to respond without setting you off on an angry rant again. “I get it,” he said finally, “You’re pissed at him. You have every right to be. But I didn’t call him to hurt you, okay? I was worried about you.”

You hated how genuine he sounded, hated that he meant well. He was a nuisance half of the time, sure, but he wasn’t malicious. He never was. He just had terrible judgment. 

“Next time, don’t,” you muttered, rubbing a hand over your face. “I don’t need you playing little brother and calling him when things go wrong."

“I wasn’t trying to clean anything up,” Topper explained, a little defensive now. “I just didn’t want you driving like that. You were upset.”

You rolled your eyes. “Upset doesn’t mean I need you or Rafe deciding what’s best for me. I’m not a kid.”

“You’re not,” he agreed, “But you weren’t exactly in a great headspace, so yeah, I stopped you. I wasn’t gonna let you leave like that and end up in a ditch somewhere.”

It hurt like a bitch, because deep down, you knew Topper had a point.

You were having a meltdown, and he’d stepped in, like he always did when you went off the rails. That was the problem with him—he cared, even when you didn’t want him to. He was family, the only family you had left, and he was too loyal for his own good.

“You could’ve told me,” you confessed what had been upsetting you, your voice losing some of its initial attitude. “About them. Instead of letting me walk into that party blind.”

Topper sighed again, “I should’ve,” he admitted. “I didn’t want you to find out like that. But it wasn’t my place to say anything. And I didn’t want to make things worse.”

Your hand instinctively moved to cup your stomach. You didn’t even realize you were doing it at first, but the second your fingers touched your shirt, the earlier panic welled up inside you again. If he only knew how bad things were. How bad they could get. You yanked your hand away like you’d been burned, heart hammering against your ribs most painfully. There was no way you could even begin to explain what was going on inside your head—or your body.

Not to Topper. Not to anyone. If he knew, he’d freak and you didn’t need that right now.

You clenched your jaw, pushing yourself to focus on the conversation, on Topper still yammering on about apologies and guilt You shook your head, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. 

“Are you even listening?”

“Unfortunately,” You sounded apathetic even to yourself, fingers tapping against the phone, agitated. “Look, Top, I don’t have time for this right now. I’m busy.”

He sighed. “I know you’re pissed, okay? I get it. But the gala’s in, like, two days. You... you still going, right?”

“Of course I’m going,” you scowled, barely able to hide the bitterness in your voice. “I have to. It’s not like I can just dip out and pretend it’s not happening.”

Unlike some people, you thought, but you bit your tongue.

“Good, because I’ll be there too. And I—”

“Oh, joy,” you interrupted, “Another chance for you to babysit me and make sure I don’t make a scene? Can’t wait.”

“Jesus, I’m just trying to help!” Topper groaned. “I didn’t want to make things worse the other night. I—”

“Yeah. Whatever, I’ll see you at the gala.”

You hung up. You didn’t have the patience to deal with him right now. 

The day of the gala came faster than you thought it would.

It was like you blinked, and suddenly, you were standing in the middle of the venue, walking through final checks with Lily, nodding along as she rattled off details you barely absorbed.

The room was all glitz and glamour, with chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, and everything draped in the foundation’s signature gold and white. 

Crisp tablecloths. Flowers in perfect, elegant arrangements. Waiters in black-tie uniforms were circulating, making sure everything looked flawless. Flawless.

That word made you want to gag.

You moved through the space like a ghost, smiling at the right moments, giving half-hearted approvals when needed.  You didn’t care. People were running around, asking for your opinion on this or that. You’d stayed at the venue longer than planned, making sure everything was in order, but your mind was stuck in that floating-place. You wanted to burn the whole thing down, if you were being honest.

You should’ve called your doctor. Days ago. Hell, maybe weeks ago.

Making smart choices wasn’t your thing lately, was it?

When you finally slipped into the room where they’d set up your glam team, you just wanted to sleep. The room itself was a suite off to the side of the venue, a private space meant to make you feel like royalty.

A massive mirror ran across one wall, surrounded by soft, glowing lights. A table was set up with everything—hair tools, makeup brushes, palettes, serums. Bottles of champagne sat chilled in the corner, the condensation dripping down the glass, untouched. It was the kind of place you were supposed to feel special in.

Normally you did. But this year you were numb.

The stylist worked quietly on your hair, soft curls falling into place as she tugged and pinned each section with meticulous care. The makeup artist was dabbing foundation onto your skin, blending and contouring until you didn’t even recognize yourself in the mirror. The dress hung behind you, a shimmering white gown, custom-designed by Versace for the occasion.

You looked like you were stepping into one of those perfect, glamorous lives. But on the inside, you felt like you were going to lose it at any second. You nodded along, giving tight-lipped smiles when they complimented you, and then they finally left.

The room was dead silent now, just you and your reflection. You stood in front of the mirror, staring at yourself, the perfect curls, the glowy skin, the gown waiting behind you. It all felt wrong. It felt fake. You didn’t bear a resemblance to yourself.

You looked like the version of you that the world expected—the untouchable girl. A doll.

Your rifled through your bag for your phone, but instead, your fingers brushed something else. Cold, hard. 

You hadn’t even realized it was in there.

One of the pregnancy tests. You must’ve thrown it in without thinking earlier that morning when you were rushing out the door. You hadn’t even noticed it until now.

What the fuck were you doing?

You had a gala to host in less than an hour. People were going to be looking at you, waiting for you to give the speech, expecting you to hold everything together like always. And there you were, standing in a private dressing room, about to do something so monumentally stupid. Maybe it was the pressure of tonight, or maybe it was the anger you’d been shoving down for weeks, but suddenly, you didn’t care.

You were going to do it.

Without even thinking, you stormed into the bathroom. You were so fucking tired of avoiding this. Tired of pretending like everything was fine, like you were fine.

What the hell was fine about any of this? You tore open the box, hands trembling as you pulled out the test. The room was so quiet, you could hear every little sound—your breath still uneven, the rustle of your dress against the tiles, the click of the test cap as you flicked it off.

You sat down, staring at the stick in your hand. This was insane. You were insane. Who the fuck took a pregnancy test ten minutes before they’re supposed to host a charity gala? 

You couldn’t get a proper breath out as you waited, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might rip your chest open. You leaned against the sink, gripping the edge. Your stomach churned, the nausea rising again, and you had to close your eyes to stop the floor from spinning.

What if it was positive? What if it wasn’t?

You stared at the test, willing the result to appear, but it didn’t. Not yet. The little window stayed blank, as if taunting you, making you feel like you were losing your mind. You knew you had to wait longer. You weren’t stupid. You’d read those instructions a million times by now, but you hated waiting.

Hated not knowing.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the stupid little piece of plastic. Just one line or two. That was all it came down to. One fucking line or two, and your entire life would either fall apart or what? Be fine?

You glanced at the mirror, catching another glimpse of yourself, and it almost startled you—your eyes were wild. Desperate. They were the eyes of someone who was just about ready to do anything to get this over with. 

You tried to picture telling him again, but the idea alone made you sick. You thought of Sofia, of her perfect smile next to his, and bile rose in your throat. Your hands never stopped shaking. You wanted to run. You wanted to throw that thing in the garbage can and never stare at it again.

Your thoughts spun in circles, going nowhere, just making everything worse. The clock on your phone ticked louder and louder, and you knew—somewhere out there, everyone was getting ready. Guests were arriving. The gala would start soon, and they’d all be waiting for you. Watching you. Expecting you to be the poised, perfect version of yourself you’d spent your whole life pretending to be.

And you were in here, trying not to lose your fucking mind.

You peeked back at it. Still nothing.

No line. No answer.

It felt like you were suspended in time. You closed your eyes, gripping the sink harder, praying for it to end—something to happen, anything.

Then finally, you felt it in your chest—a heavy, sinking feeling, like the moment before a fall.

You opened your eyes. 

There it was.

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[sunbeamlessreads]

Let Him See - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ He kisses you like he’s waited for permission. And that’s what makes you break. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader]

~8.2k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, emotional neglect, infidelity, porn with plot, smut, possessive behavior, complicated breakup dynamics

lando stopped seeing you. oscar never missed a thing. now the whole paddock knows.

notes: i tried writing in present tense for this, which really isn't in my ballpark. not sure if i loved it, but maybe i'll do more of it later on. i’m sorry i made lando out to be such a dick. i promise ill make up for it!! enjoy! <3

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The McLaren party is elegant in that vaguely overstated way team events always are—polished chrome fixtures, dim gold lighting, and drinks served in glasses that clink too delicately for the kind of tension simmering beneath the surface.

You walk in on Lando’s arm. A black strapless dress hugging you like it was tailored in vengeance. The ruffled ruching along the bottom cascades like spilled ink with every step you take. You planned everything—the heels, the bold red lipstick, the subtle shimmer in the inner corners of your eyes. All for him.

He barely glances down at you.

Lando says something to a passing engineer, nods at a sponsor, then slips out of your grasp as naturally as water slipping through your fingers. No one notices the slight shift in your balance when he lets go. But you do.

You’re left standing beside a bar you didn’t want to be near, surrounded by people who smile too brightly and ask questions you don’t want to answer.

You’re his girlfriend—the public face of a dying relationship neither of you have the courage to end. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. He’s across the room within minutes, grinning down at a woman in a red backless dress, hand resting low on her spine. It’s a familiar stance. You’ve seen it before. You’ve even been on the receiving end of it—back when he still bothered.

Your chest aches, but you don’t flinch. Not here. Not while people are watching.

Someone asks you if you want champagne. You decline with a polite smile, then excuse yourself—something about needing to take a call, voice breezy, unbothered.

You step out of the ballroom like you’re slipping out of a skin that doesn’t fit anymore.

The hallway is dim and mercifully empty. You exhale, back against the cool wall, and pull your phone out of your clutch—blank screen. No missed messages. No excuses to stay outside longer than you should.

You open WhatsApp. You type a few words. Delete them. Start again. Then stop. You let your head tip back until it rests against the cool wall, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

You wore this dress for him.

You practically starved yourself all day, got your makeup done by the same artist who preps you for photoshoots, shaved every inch of your body until your skin ached—and he didn’t even look at you.

A sharp sting pricks behind your eyes, but you blink it back. Your mascara is too good to waste on someone who hasn’t kissed you in public in weeks.

You shift your weight in your heels. They’re taller than you usually wear—he once said he liked when you looked just a little out of balance, like he had to catch you. He hasn’t caught you in a long time.

The hallway feels like limbo. You’re not sure if you want to scream or vanish. The silence settles over you like a second skin—until it breaks.

“Hey.”

You look up.

Oscar stands a few feet away. Hands in his pockets. Brows knit with something like concern—or maybe anger, but not at you.

You straighten up instinctively, “Hey.”

His gaze flicks toward the ballroom, then back to you, “He didn’t even notice you left.”

Your voice catches before it comes out, “He never does.”

Oscar doesn’t speak. He just stays there, watching you like you’re not crazy for feeling the way you do.

For a few seconds, that’s enough.

You look away first. Not because you’re embarrassed—but because his eyes are too steady, too full of something that burns beneath the surface. Like if you look too long, you’ll start crying or say something you can’t take back.

Your gaze falls to the floor, to the veins in the marble tile, to the perfectly manicured hand holding your clutch like it’s the only thing holding you together.

Then, softly—like the truth finally scraping its way up your throat—you speak.

“He does this a lot,” you murmur, “Leaves me at these things. Flirts with whatever blonde he hasn’t slept with yet. Sometimes it’s just talking. Usually it’s not.”

You swallow. The bitterness coats your tongue.

“And I’m supposed to smile through it. Pretend I don’t care. Because we’re McLaren’s golden couple, right? I look good enough on his arm, and he looks better in the photos. Win-win.”

Oscar doesn’t interrupt. He stays where he is, still but attentive, like if he moves too fast you might break.

You don’t stop. It’s pouring out now.

“I tell myself it’s fine. That I knew what I was signing up for. That it’s just how he is. But then I see the way he touches them—like they’re interesting. Like they matter.”

Your voice drops, quiet and sharp:

“He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.”

The silence after that is loud. Heavy.

You take a shaky breath and force out a dry laugh. “God. I sound pathetic.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, “You sound hurt.”

You blink. His voice is too honest. Too kind.

It cracks something wide open.

“Of course I’m hurt,” you whisper, “I feel disposable. And maybe I am. Maybe that’s why I don’t leave. Maybe I’m scared if I do, no one else will want me.”

Oscar moves then.

Just a step. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s grounding himself.

“That’s not true,” he says, sincerity and care laced in his voice. 

You lift your eyes to his. His tone doesn't match how furious he looks. Not at you—never at you—but at everything you just said. At every bruise Lando left behind that didn’t show up on your skin.

“I’m tired of watching him hurt you,” he says, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

The breath catches in your throat. You didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect him to say it. Not so simply. Not so seriously.

You fold your arms across your chest, trying to find a shield in sarcasm. It’s the only armor you have left.

“What, you want to make him jealous or something?” A laugh, light and mocking. A shrug, “Go ahead.”

You don’t mean it. It’s a deflection, a defense. Something to push him back before he gets too close to the bleeding parts.

But Oscar doesn’t laugh.

He steps in.

Close.

Too close.

You feel his hand brush the side of your face, gentle fingers slipping behind your ear. He pauses—waits for you to stop him—and when you don’t, he tilts your chin just enough.

And then he kisses you.

Your body locks. Every muscle goes taut.

Your lips are frozen against his, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

But his mouth is soft. Steady. Patient.

He kisses you like he’s waited for permission.

And that’s what makes you break.

You melt.

Fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, you kiss him back. Rough. Desperate. Furious with yourself for how good it feels. For how long you’ve wanted this, buried it, pushed it down under years of Lando’s carelessness.

Oscar groans when your hips tip into his.

The kiss deepens. His hands grip your waist—hard, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, grabbing fistfuls of cotton like you need to hold on or you’ll collapse.

You hit the wall with a soft thud. He doesn’t stop. You don’t want him to. One of his hands finds your bare thigh where your dress has shifted, the other cradling your jaw.

He kisses you like he needs to prove something. Like he’s making up for every second Lando didn’t touch you.

You moan into his mouth—too soft, too shocked at yourself.

He pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips.

You’re both breathing heavily; you more than him.

Your lipstick’s ruined. His pupils are blown. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just come off a cooldown lap.

Then—voice low, rough, shaking with restraint—he says,

“Room 321. If you mean it.”

And he steps back. Hands still curled like he wants to reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

He leaves you standing there in a dim hotel hallway, breathless, shaking, lips tingling, with your heart slamming against your ribs and your mind screaming that something just changed forever.

Room 321.

You stare at the number plaque for a moment.

You knock once, and the door opens like he was already standing behind it—waiting.

Oscar stands in the soft glow of the hotel room, still in his suit pants, white shirt rumpled with the top two buttons undone. His jacket’s folded neatly over the back of a chair. His hair’s a little mussed like he’s been running his hands through it since he left you.

His eyes land on your lips first. Then your throat.

Your lipstick is smudged from the hallway kiss. You didn’t fix it. You didn’t want to.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there. Chest rising slowly. Eyes locked on yours. There’s something sharp in his silence—not anger, not regret. Restraint.

You step into the room slowly. The door closes behind you with a dull thud that feels heavier than it should.

He still doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The tension crackles between you like a tripwire no one wants to step on first.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, eyes dark.

Your chest lifts, lips parted slightly as you look at him across the room, “Then tell me to leave.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward.

You mirror him.

Another step. Closer. Breath catching.

Until there’s no more distance between you.

He reaches out—hesitantly—fingers brushing your chin, then trailing along the line of your smudged lipstick.

“You look like you’ve already been kissed,” he says. 

You breathe, “You did that.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I did.”

That’s when the tension snaps.

The second his mouth meets yours again, everything else dissolves.

It’s rougher this time. Starved. Less like a kiss and more like a confession torn from his chest. His hands cradle your jaw, fingers pressing just beneath your ears like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. Your arms loop around his neck instantly, your body melting into his like it always belonged there.

His tongue slips past your lips, hot and slow, as your backs bump blindly into the desk behind you. A McLaren cap falls to the floor unnoticed. You gasp softly into the kiss, and he groans into your mouth like it’s killing him not to take more.

His hands slide down your arms, then to your waist, where he grips you tightly—not to push, not to rush. Just to hold. Just to feel.

You don’t pull away when he reaches behind you and finds the zipper of your dress. It comes down slowly, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet of the room. His knuckles brush your spine as he guides the fabric off your shoulders.

You’re still kissing when it falls to your ankles.

Still kissing when you push his shirt off, fingers slipping under the undone buttons, palms brushing warm skin. He shrugs it down his arms and lets it fall with a soft rustle to the carpet. His pants follow soon after, as you blindly undo his belt and unbutton them. 

His hands don’t leave your body. Not once.

You walk backward together, mouths fused, breath short, until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you.

Then he bends slightly and lifts you—carefully, like you might shatter in his arms—and lays you down on the sheets as if it’s an offering.

Your hair fans out against the pillows. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Oscar stands over you for a second, chest heaving, jaw tight, eyes moving across every inch of your skin.

Then he climbs onto the bed and kneels between your thighs.

You watch him watch you, lips parted, body burning.

He leans in and kisses your neck—softly at first.

Then lower.

And lower.

Down the column of your throat, over the swell of your chest. He shifts the fabric of your bra aside, reaching beneath you and removing it gently, with trembling fingers, and kisses the curve of your breast, then bites gently.

You gasp, fingers grasping at the sheets.

He sucks gently—and when he pulls back, there’s a blooming red mark just beneath your collarbone.

Then another. Between your breasts.

Then one lower, over the swell of your ribcage.

He takes his time. His mouth moves down, and you lose count of how many places he claims with his lips and teeth.

You squirm as he shifts, adjusting on his knees to reach lower, pushing the edge of your panties aside so he can press another kiss just above your hipbone—then right at the inner curve of your thigh.

He sucks there, too. A long, slow draw that makes your fingers fist the sheets.

“Oscar—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice husky, “Let me leave them.”

Another bite. Another mark, just shy of the place where you’re already aching for him.

“I want him to see every single one of these.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

You’ve never been kissed like this—not for show, not for ownership, but for the sheer need to leave a piece of himself behind on your skin.

By the time his mouth trails back up your thighs, your panties are damp with heat and your breathing’s gone shaky.

Oscar leans up, one hand bracing beside your waist. His other hand finds the waistband of your panties and begins to ease them down—slowly. Carefully. Like unwrapping something delicate.

He watches your face the entire time.

They slide down your legs with ease, and he tosses them aside.

You’re bare for him now—fully, completely—and you’ve never felt so seen.

He kisses your knee. Then the inside of your thigh again. Then finally, finally, his mouth hovers over where you need him most.

You’re already soaked. He groans when he sees it.

“Fuck. Look at you. I’ve thought about this,” he says softly, eyes fixed on where you’re already wet for him. “So many times.”

You can’t answer. You can barely think.

His hands spread you open gently—reverently—and then his mouth is on you.

Warm. Wet. Soft.

The first stroke of his tongue is unhurried, a slow drag from bottom to top that makes your spine arch off the mattress. You gasp, hips twitching, but his grip is firm on your thighs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against you.

He licks again—long and deliberate—then presses soft kisses to your clit, switching between his tongue and his lips like he’s tasting something he wants to savor.

You moan—high and broken—and he groans back like he feels it.

His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin. You’re writhing now, overwhelmed, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly with every passing second.

Your fingers claw at the sheets. You feel it coming, your body locking up—

Until he pulls back.

Your hips lift off the bed, chasing the loss, but his hands still you.

He leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh again—slow and deep—a soft, open-mouthed press that lingers just long enough to leave another blooming bruise.

Then he hovers over you, mouth wet, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “I can feel it. You’re shaking.”

You nod, lips parted, breath stuttering.

His hands slide up your thighs, grounding you—but instead of returning to where you’re desperate for him, he pulls back more.

“Don’t come yet.”

Your brows draw together, lips twitching in protest, “What—why—?”

Oscar leans in again, hand wrapping around your thigh to hold you open as he presses a kiss just above your aching heat. 

His voice is low, but firm, “Because I want to be inside you when you fall apart.”

The authority in his tone makes you clench around nothing. You whimper as he sits back on his heels, rubbing his palms over your thighs in soothing strokes.

“Please…” you whisper.

His mouth tilts into the faintest smirk—not smug. Hungry.

Then he crawls back up your body, leaving another trail of slow kisses across the bruises he’s left down your chest.

“You don’t come without me tonight,” he says quietly against your skin. “You understand?”

You nod, barely breathing.

“Say it,” his tone is demanding, but not impatient.

“I—I won’t come until you’re inside me,” you surrender. 

He moves back up to kiss you—soft at first, then deeper, longer—as he reaches over to the nightstand. You hear the foil tear, the familiar sound grounding the moment in something real. His body shifts against yours as he sits back briefly to roll the condom on, his breath catching as his hand moves.

Then he’s back above you—one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand sliding down to guide himself to your entrance. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick and so ready.

But still, he pauses.

“Are you sure? You won’t regret this later?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not demanding. Not coaxing. Just open.

You reach up, cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“Yes. I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

Oscar exhales—one soft, shuddering breath—and presses his forehead to yours for a moment, like he’s soaking those words in.

He sinks into you slowly—not teasing, just careful, controlled, like he’s doing something sacred. His hips press forward inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you fully until your thighs tremble against his sides.

You gasp, clutching his biceps, head tipping back into the pillows, “Oscar…”

“I know,” he breathes. “Fuck, I know. You feel—”

He cuts himself off with a groan, jaw tightening as he bottoms out, “So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

He stills inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the effort of not losing it too soon. He brushes your hair away from your face with the gentlest touch, his palm cupping your cheek like he’s afraid you might break if he lets go.

“You okay?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, “Move. Please.”

So he does.

The first thrust is slow and deep, rolling through your whole body. His hips pull back and push forward in a smooth rhythm that feels like worship. Each time he fills you, you feel more of yourself unravel, like he’s stripping you bare with every stroke.

He kisses you through it—long, lingering kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You breathe it against his lips, broken and honest:

“I’m yours.”

He groans, burying himself deeper.

His pace stays steady, grounding—not brutal, not rushed, but deliberate. Like he wants to make this last. Like he needs you to feel it for hours after.

His hand slides down your side to grip your thigh, pulling your leg up around his waist to angle you just right—and when he thrusts again, you choke on a moan.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod frantically, eyes wide and wet.

“Yeah, baby. That’s it,” He stumbles through his words, deep within his own pleasure, “You take me so well.”

You cling to him like he’s the only real thing in the world, his name slipping from your lips between soft gasps, your body clenching around him, slick and pulsing and completely his.

When your orgasm hits, it’s not sharp—it’s deep. A wave that rolls through you, full-body and consuming. You cry out, and he swallows the sound in a kiss, fucking you through it with soft praise and steady hands.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go. I’ve got you.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kisses the corner of your eye.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, “You’re safe.”

He comes only seconds later, thrusts stuttering, mouth falling open against your neck. You feel him groan into your skin as he grips your thigh and spills into the condom, his whole body shaking with the effort.

And when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away.

He just collapses into you—gently—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.

You lie there tangled in each other, your fingers brushing through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, your thighs still parted around his hips.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t have to.

You’re both suspended in that quiet stillness—the kind that only comes after something real, something that changes the shape of you.

After a long moment, he shifts slightly, careful not to crush you. His hand strokes your thigh where it’s still curled around his waist. He places a soft kiss on your cheek, then another on your jaw. Then he pulls out gently, drawing a small whimper from your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, brushing his hand down your hip, “You okay?”

You nod. Your voice is still trapped somewhere in your chest, so you let your hand answer for you, fingers curling around his bicep. He disposes of the condom quickly, then returns to the bed without hesitation, lying beside you and immediately pulling you into his arms.

He doesn’t ask if it was good.

He doesn’t need to.

Instead, he cradles you, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other brushing soft fingers through your hair.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “Just… a lot.”

You feel his smile against your forehead. His hand slides up and down your back, slow and steady, grounding.

“Hey,” he says gently after a pause. “You don’t… regret this, do you?”

You shift slightly to look at him. His eyes are wide, open, vulnerable—stripped of all the heat and control from earlier. He’s just Oscar now. Soft-spoken and careful with your heart.

You shake your head slowly, “No. I don’t.”

His shoulders relax.

“Okay,” he says, “Good. I just—I need you to know…”

He hesitates, thumb brushing your side, “This doesn’t have to mean anything. If it was just about him—if it was just something you needed to do — that’s okay.”

You blink. His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of sadness tucked into it. Like he means what he’s saying, but part of him hopes it isn’t just that.

You slide your hand up his chest, over the steady beat of his heart, “It wasn’t just about him.”

His brows lift slightly. You lean in and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t mean anything.”

Oscar exhales—slow and shaky—and you see the tension leave his body like someone just untied a knot that’s been there for months.

He pulls you in tighter. You tuck your head beneath his chin, leg slipping between his, arms around his torso, his scent already warm on your skin.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “Stay?”

You nod against his chest, “I want to.”

You fall asleep like that—in his arms, his fingers tangled in your hair, your body marked with proof of what happened.

Not revenge.

Not just sex.

Something.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Oscar’s chest beneath your cheek. His arm still slung around your waist. The faint hum of city life beyond the hotel windows. You blink slowly into the early light, your lashes brushing the skin of his collarbone.

He’s already awake.

You can feel it in the way his fingers trace lazy, absentminded shapes along your back. He’s not in a rush. Not trying to move you. Just… there, soaking the moment in.

You shift slightly, stretch, and wince a little—your thighs ache, in the best way. Oscar immediately pauses.

“Sore?” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“A little,’ you respond quietly.

He kisses your forehead, “Good sore or… need-an-ice-pack sore?”

You snort, hiding your smile in his chest, “Good sore.”

He hums, content. His hand returns to your back. You both stay still for a few more seconds—not talking, not overthinking—just breathing together.

Then, softly, “You don’t have to sneak out,” he says, “You can walk out like you belong here.”

You glance up at him, “I kind of do belong now… don’t I?”

His lips lift into a tired smile, “Yeah. You do.”

You press a soft kiss to his jaw before finally sitting up, the sheets slipping down your body, baring the constellation of love bites he left down your chest. His eyes flick to them, and his smile shifts—pride, possession, a little satisfaction.

“He’s gonna see those,” he says.

“Good,” you echo, voice quiet but sharp.

You find your underwear, pull on your clothes from the night before — everything still wrinkled from the floor. You go to the mirror, fix your hair just enough, and borrow his hoodie. He watches you do it all in silence.

Before you leave, he stands, cups your face in both hands, and kisses you slow. Sweet.

“See you down there?”

You nod, “Yeah. I’ll be around.”

You open the door.

Step out.

And you’re not five steps down the hall before you hear the elevator ding.

You hear the sound of footsteps before you register anything else—then the shift in atmosphere. Heavy. Cold. Unwelcoming/

You turn.

Lando steps into the hallway off of the elevator, coffee in hand, hoodie tied low around his hips, damp curls falling over his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower.

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just stops—eyes locked on you—and stares.

At the heels.

At the wrinkled black dress from last night.

At the hoodie hanging off your shoulders—Oscar’s '81' hoodie.

Then his gaze lands on your neck.

The bruises.

The silence stretches, thick and venomous.

“Wow,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his coffee, “Didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

You raise an eyebrow, heartbeat steady, “Funny. I was thinking the same about you for the last six months.”

His eyes flicker—a flash of guilt, gone in an instant.

“So what, then?” he snaps. “You fuck my teammate to even the score?”

You shrug one shoulder, “I didn’t realize we were still keeping score.”

“You really let him leave those on you?” His voice cuts sharper now, bitter, “Is that what you’re doing now? Walking around marked up like a fucking trophy?”

“He didn’t do it to prove a point,’ You step closer, just enough, “He did it because he wanted to touch me. Because he actually looked at me.”

Lando’s jaw clenches,

"You’re still mine.”

That’s when you laugh—not cruel, but quiet. Final.

“No, Lando. I was never yours,” you say with a confidence you didn’t know you possessed, “I just played the part.”

His lips part like he wants to fire back, but no words come.

You walk past him without another glance, heels echoing softly against the hotel carpet. His coffee hand twitches like he wants to stop you—to say something that could undo what he just saw.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

The bruises on your neck do all the talking.

The tension hits before you even step onto the concrete.

You’d heard whispers all morning—something about a joint media pen meltdown, Lando snapping mid-question, storming off, Oscar handling it with trademark calm. Nobody quite knows why. No one’s saying anything aloud. But everyone feels the shift.

Especially in the McLaren garage.

The energy is tight. Controlled. Like an engine revving just a little too high.

You move through it like a blade through silk.

Sunglasses on, McLaren pass hanging low on your chest. Hair neatly pulled back, hoodie zipped halfway. You tried to cover the hickeys— light foundation along your collarbone, you hadn't expected to need color corrector on this trip—but Monaco’s heat is unforgiving. The bruises are starting to bleed through the coverage, soft and red and obvious.

You don’t adjust your zipper.

Let them wonder.

As you step through the divider into the team area, a few heads turn. You're familiar enough to them. People don’t stare—not directly—but eyes flick. Conversations pause. It’s subtle, but you’re used to it by now.

Oscar’s standing just to the side of the media tent, debrief notes in one hand. He looks up the second you appear—and though his expression doesn’t change much, you catch the tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

He doesn’t come to you.

You don’t go to him.

Not yet.

You pass close enough that your arm brushes his, and the heat between you sizzles like something private. He doesn’t look, doesn’t touch.

But he says, quiet enough for only you to hear, “He cracked.”

You smile faintly, “I heard.”

“They asked about quali, he said something about ‘teammates knowing their place.’”

You raise a brow, amused, “Classy.”

“Zak pulled him out. Press has no idea what the fuck he meant,” Oscar says, with a hint of boyish triumph laced in his voice. 

“But you do.”

He doesn’t answer that—just smiles again, a little wider this time.

You walk past him and take your place in the viewing area beside one of the engineers. From across the garage, you feel Lando’s eyes land on you. Just a flicker.

Just long enough.

He sees the bruise peeking above the collar of your hoodie. The faint outline of teeth just beneath your jaw.

He looks away.

You don’t need to say a word.

Oscar already said it for you—with his mouth on your skin, with his name on your lips, with every mark he left behind.

Qualifying starts, and Monaco doesn’t give anyone room to hide — not on track, and definitely not off it.

From the team pit wall, you watch it unfold through tinted lenses, headset perched loosely around your neck.

Oscar’s smooth. Fast. Calm through Sector 1, surgical through the hairpin. Lando’s twitchier. Overcorrecting. Radio sharp. He goes wide into Turn 12 and mutters something that gets bleeped on the live feed.

The garage knows.

Everyone knows.

Even the engineers are glancing at each other between data runs. The tension hasn’t lifted—it’s just gone quieter. Deeper.

Zak walks past you once, then again, and doesn’t say anything.

You don’t move.

Oscar finishes P3. Lando P7.

When Oscar’s lap time flashes on the board, there’s a flicker of something like satisfaction in the way he lifts his visor. He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t gloat. Just pulls back into the garage like he’s done his job—and knows you were watching.

You head toward the back hallway after the session ends. Quiet space behind hospitality, where the drivers come through before facing the press.

You’re leaning against a wall when you hear the voices before you see them.

Lando’s.

“Why don’t you tell them what you were really thinking on that last lap?”

Oscar’s.

“Excuse me?”

Lando’s.

“You wanted to beat me. You needed to. Don’t act like this was just another quali for you.”

Oscar’s voice is quieter, cooler, “Every quali, I want to beat the guy next to me. That’s the point.”

Lando laughs, sharp and joyless, “You think you’ve won something, don’t you? Some prize of a woman?”

You step into view.

They both go quiet.

Oscar’s eyes flick to you first—not surprised, not smug. Just aware. Present.

Lando sees the faint hickey blooming again, the one the foundation couldn’t fully hide, and his jaw ticks. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

You tilt your head, “Everything alright?”

Oscar looks at Lando for half a second longer, then turns to you.

“Yeah,” he says, calm and even. “We were just clearing the air.”

This earns him a glare from Lando. 

You smile at Oscar, brush your hand lightly along his arm as you pass.

Lando stays frozen.

It’s dark when you find Oscar again—rooftop level, away from the noise. He’s leaning on the railing in his McLaren hoodie, watching the city lights flicker over the water.

You slip in beside him.

He doesn’t look away from the skyline.

“He’s pissed,” Oscar says.

“He’ll stay pissed,” you admit quietly.

“He’s not just mad about it being me,” a beat, “He’s mad because he never thought you would leave him.”

You nod, fingers grazing the edge of the railing, “He never thought I’d let anyone else touch me.”

Oscar turns to you then. The tension’s gone now, burned out somewhere between the lap and the hallway. He notices you shivering and removes his hoodie, handing it to you without a word.

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” you respond, more assurance in your voice than the last time he asked. You turn fully toward him, “Do you?”

He just looks at you—steady, thoughtful, something softer than anything he’s shown all day.

Then he shrugs one shoulder and smiles faintly, “Not even a little.”

You lean in.

Kiss him.

The kiss is soft—nothing like the one in the hallway, or the ones from last night, hot and breathless with desperation. This one is calm. Confident.

Yours.

Oscar’s hands rest lightly on your waist, the cool night breeze lifting strands of your hair between you. Monaco glitters below, impossibly golden. You kiss him once. Then again. Slow. Unrushed. Like no one’s watching.

Except someone is.

You don’t notice it at first—the small mechanical click behind you. Subtle. A shutter. A camera lens adjusting to the low light.

By the time you pull back, it’s already done.

Oscar’s head lifts just slightly, eyes narrowing toward a corner of the rooftop—barely visible through a line of glass. Not press-official. Paparazzi freelance. The ones who sell exclusives when the media team’s off-duty.

“Shit,” Oscar mutters under his breath.

You turn, eyes locking on the shadowed figure just as they duck behind cover.

Too late.

“Think they got it?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Oscar nods slowly, expression unreadable, “Yeah. They got it.”

You exhale—not panicked. Just… bracing.

Because the image will drop. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. You in his arms, mouth on his, Oscar’s hoodie on your shoulders, his fingers curled around your waist like he’s holding something that matters.

It’s not a rumor anymore.

It’s not a whisper in the paddock hallway or a locker room assumption or something Lando only suspects.

It’s proof.

The photo drops sometime after 2 a.m.

It’s soft. Intimate. The Monaco skyline blurred behind you, Oscar’s hands gentle on your hips, your lips brushing his in a kiss too tender to be casual. You’re wearing his hoodie, your body leaning into his like you belong there. The headline spins fast, and the image spins faster.

“Piastri and mystery girl— late-night kiss confirms more than paddock rumors.” #MonacoGP #OP81 #McLaren #F1WeekendRomance

By the time the sun rises over the harbor, the image has circled the globe. Instagram reels. Reddit threads. Private group chats with McLaren team tags. 

Some know who you are. Others ask. Everyone guesses.

No one’s surprised.

Not even Lando.

He sees it around 6 a.m. His phone buzzes with the notification, a WhatsApp ping from someone in media: “Bro…?”

He clicks it, thumb slow, still groggy from a half-slept night.

The image fills his screen in just about a second flat.

And for a second, he doesn’t feel anything at all.

Then it hits—slow and thick, like cold water spreading under his ribs. He stares at the photo, eyes scanning over the curve of your smile, the way your fingers curl into the back of Oscar’s shirt, the undeniable ease in your body.

You look happy.

He hasn't seen that look on you in months.

The worst part is how quiet the fury is—how it doesn’t come out loud, how it just sits there in his chest.

He doesn’t throw the phone.

He just stares, jaw tight, thumb hovering above the screen like he could rewind the moment and undo it.

But it’s already out.

And nothing will unsee it.

The paddock is different that morning. The kind of quiet that’s not actually quiet—just loaded.

Oscar walks in calm. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t shrink. He gives one quick nod to Zak, another to the comms lead. Then walks into the garage like he hasn’t just become the most searched man in F1.

Lando’s already in the back, zipped into his fireproofs, eyes locked on the telemetry like it might give him something to hit. When Oscar appears beside him in the media pen, the tension is immediate—even before the interviews start.

“Oscar,” one reporter says, half-laughing, “you’ve been trending all morning. Surprised by the attention?”

Oscar’s lips tug into a polite half-smile, “Not particularly.”

“Balancing a fast lap and a fast… personal life?” someone else jokes.

He doesn’t miss a beat, “One lap at a time.”

Lando laughs then—too sharp, too loud, “He’s got more than enough time to focus on everything else, clearly.”

The PR handler stiffens. The reporters go quiet. One camera clicks. Someone tries to move the topic on, but the moment lands.

Oscar doesn’t react. Just folds his arms across his chest, gives a small smile, and looks straight ahead.

You hear about it an hour later.

And when you enter the garage, it’s like parting smoke. The space tenses. Heads turn. No one quite meets your eyes, except for Lando —a glance, sharp and quick, from across the space.

He looks away.

Oscar doesn’t.

You find him standing near the screens, headset tucked around his neck, one hand in his pocket. He sees you and offers the smallest, softest smile.

You pass close. Don’t touch. Don’t stop.

But your fingers graze his as you go.

He breathes like it’s the first time all day he’s been allowed to.

Later, after the final briefings wrap, you find him alone behind the paddock—tucked into a quiet service alley, the marina glittering beyond the concrete walls.

He doesn’t hear you approach. Just stands with his back to you, hands braced on the railing, still in his gear. His shoulders rise and fall in slow rhythm.

You stop beside him.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, “So,” you murmur, “that’s one way to go public.”

He huffs a laugh. “Guess we don’t get to control the timing.”

You glance sideways at him. “Regret it yet?”

He finally looks at you — eyes soft, voice quieter than it was all day, “Not even a little.”

You nod slowly, “Me either.”

He exhales, like that’s what he was waiting for.

“It’s going to be loud,” He warns

“I know.”

“He’s not going to take it quietly,” Oscar adds. 

“He’s not my responsibility anymore.”

Oscar studies your face — the calm in your expression, the steadiness in your voice — then lifts a hand to your jaw, thumb brushing gently beneath your cheekbone.

“If it gets messy—” Oscar starts. 

“We’ll deal with it,” you reassure him with a confidence foreign to you. 

He nods once.

"Good luck out there."

The Monaco sun glints harshly off the harbor, but the air inside the McLaren garage is colder than it should be. Everyone’s already seen the photo. The photographers couldn’t have asked for a cleaner shot.

No one says a word about it — not to your face. But there’s something in the silence. The way engineers glance between Lando and Oscar before looking away. The way a strategist clears his throat before relaying sector data like he’s afraid it might ignite something.

You stay quiet. Poised. Present in the garage like you’ve always been. Just another figure with a headset and a McLaren pass. Except now, yesterday's bruises aren’t just hickeys—they’re headlines.

Oscar’s composed during formation laps, fully in the zone. Lando, on the other hand, can’t seem to keep still. His fingers twitch on the wheel. His visor drops early. And when he lines up behind Oscar on the grid, his car nose to the back of the #81, the message is clear:

He’s not racing for position.

He’s racing him.

The lights go out at the start, and the tension snaps taut.

Oscar gets off the line clean. Fast. Aggressive, but composed—the kind of driver who cuts through chaos like he’s above it. He settles into P3 behind Leclerc and Max, calm radio calls rolling through your headset.

“Tyres feel stable. Brakes coming up nicely.” His tone is smooth. Professional. Locked in.

“Copy that, Oscar. You’re looking good. Just manage the gap.”

Lando, meanwhile, is chewing through the field from P7, but he’s not driving—he’s fighting. And it shows. He’s too heavy into the Nouvelle Chicane. Nearly clips the barrier at Mirabeau. Gets squeezed by Hamilton going into the tunnel and screams down the radio like it’s personal.

“Is anyone actually gonna call shit today, or should I just punt him off the fucking track?”

“Lando, stay focused.”

“Oh, now you want focus. Should’ve told golden boy to stay out of my way in quali.”

Twenty laps in, Oscar’s holding steady in third with tire wear perfectly balanced. Lando’s muscling his way up to P5, then P4 after a gutsy dive into Sainte Devote. It’s impressive. Chaotic. Pure Lando.

“Tell him if he’s going to block me, he better commit to it. This half-ass defending doesn’t help anyone.”

The pit wall tries to smooth it over.

“Copy, Lando. Maintain focus. Oscar’s running clean.”

There’s a beat of static. Then Lando again.

“If he wants to play team leader, he better drive like it.”

In Oscar’s car, there’s only quiet. Steady updates. Clean cornering. No rise. No reaction.

Just sector after sector of control.

But it’s Oscar who makes it look effortless.

Final laps tick down. Lando’s close—closer than he’s been all weekend—but not enough.

You watch the checkered flag fall from the garage viewing area, headset still clutched in one hand, heart thudding in your chest. Oscar crosses the line second—a solid, beautiful finish. No mistakes. No drama.

Lando follows in fourth.

The crowd roars. The team celebrates.

But inside the garage, the energy is split.

Half the crew glances toward the monitors. The other half glances toward you.

No one says anything.

But the silence speaks volumes.

The garage claps for Oscar’s podium. It’s not dramatic. No confetti. But the applause is sincere. You stay tucked to the side as he peels off his gloves and helmet, curls damp and jaw clenched with adrenaline.

He doesn’t look for you.

He knows you’re there.

The podium happens in a flash champagne, interviews, cameras. Oscar is graceful. Deflecting the kiss photo with a shrug:

”I try to keep focus on track. Everything else…” He shrugs. “That’s not what wins points. I let the track speak louder than the tabloids.”

Clean. Cool. Unbothered.

Lando’s post-race media scrum doesn’t go as smoothly.

His smile is too tight. His answers too short.

“Happy with your pace today?”

“No.”

“Anything you’d like to say about team dynamics?”

“I think a few people need to remember who they were before the cameras showed up.”

You’re not sure if it’s coincidence or fate. Lando's leaning against the wall near the back of the hospitality area, arms crossed over his chest, fire suit still half-zipped, sweat drying on his neck. The air between you tightens instantly.

He sees you before you speak.

“So that’s it?” he says, voice low, mocking, “You get your moment? Photo hits the press and suddenly you’re Piastri’s girl now?”

You keep your voice even. “It’s not about the photo.”

“No?” His eyebrows lift, “Looked like it. Looked like perfect timing, actually. Right before race day. You really going for the full storybook arc, huh?”

You cross your arms, matching his stance, “You think I planned that? You think I wanted to be caught?”

He snorts. “Certainly didn't stop.”

You step closer.

“You didn’t stop sleeping around. You didn’t stop ignoring me. You didn’t stop until I was already gone.”

His mouth twitches—not a smile. Something bitter.

“And you think Oscar’s different?”

“I know he is.”

He studies you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to find the part of you that still belongs to him. The part he can poke and prod and control like he used to.

But it’s not there.

His breath stutters. He looks away—jaw tight, hands clenched.

There’s movement behind you.

Lando glances past your shoulder—posture tensing.

Oscar stands just beyond the corner. Silent. Watching.

But he doesn’t step in.

He meets your eyes—not Lando’s—and with one subtle nod, he turns to go.

Because he trusts you to handle this.

Because you needed to take this one yourself.

You find Oscar later by the hospitality coffee station, half-dressed down from his suit, fingers curled around a water bottle, his race boots unlaced. The crowds have thinned. The crew’s winding down. But he’s still here—waiting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“You saw?”

“I heard,” he says. “Then I saw.”

He studies you.

“You handled him.”

You nod, then smile faintly. “So did you.”

Oscar lifts his water bottle and takes a sip.

You step closer. Not rushed. Just enough.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“Not stepping in.”

“Didn’t need to,” he replies, “I knew you could handle him.”

You lean into his side, your hand resting on his chest. His arm slips around your back like it’s instinct.

There are still cameras around.

Still whispers.

Still fallout coming.

But for now, it’s just the two of you.

Still standing.

FROM PADDOCK DARLING TO PIASTRI’S MYSTERY GIRL: MONACO GP’S MOST TALKED-ABOUT WOMAN

Well, well, well. Things are heating up in more ways than one at McLaren—and this time, it’s not just on track.

In case you missed it (though how could you?), Oscar Piastri made headlines this weekend for more than just his flawless P2 finish in Monaco. The 23-year-old Aussie was spotted sharing a kiss with a woman who—until recently—had been very publicly linked to his teammate, Lando Norris.

Yes. You read that right.

The viral photo, snapped late Saturday night on a rooftop terrace above the Monaco paddock, shows Piastri in what can only be described as a very cozy moment with a mystery girl who fans quickly identified as Lando’s longtime (but reportedly estranged) girlfriend.

Wearing his hoodie. With his hands around her waist. And what appear to be love bites peeking out from beneath her collar.

(We zoomed in. Don’t act like you didn’t.)

The woman once seen at every race on Lando Norris’ arm is no longer just a grid-side accessory—she’s made it very clear whose garage she’s in now. And it’s not Norris’.

Neither Oscar nor the woman in question have made an official statement, but the body language has said plenty. The pair has been spotted multiple times, hand-in-hand, unabashed.

While reps for McLaren offered no official comment on the photo, the tension in the garage during Saturday qualifying spoke volumes. Sources inside the paddock describe Norris as “visibly short-tempered,” with one engineer claiming he was “racing like he had something to prove.” As for Piastri? Calm, composed—and, if we may, focused.

He brought home P2.

Norris? P4—and reportedly less than thrilled.

Let’s not forget: this isn’t the first time Lando’s off-track antics have made waves—rumors of infidelity have followed the Brit through the past few seasons, though they were often brushed aside by his ever-loyal girlfriend. Until now.

While nothing has been confirmed (yet), it would certainly appear that she’s Oscar’s now.

Whether this unexpected romance will fuel drama or just give Oscar a boost on track remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure: we’ll be watching.

Very closely.

Stay tuned. The summer break’s never felt so far away.

© Copyright, 2025.

[misstycloud]

Yan! Sick Young master x caretaker reader.

Yandere!Young Master who you were brought in to care for. He was known for being exceedingly difficult; his family never managed to hire someone for more than three months, they all got fed up at some point and left as soon as they received their last pay check.

Yandere!Young Master who has a lot of conditions that leaves him unstable. He is not even able to go outside and he rarely eats. Luckily he has his old-money family who cares about him just enough to hire help instead of letting him slowly rot away in a secluded part of the mansion.

Yandere!Young Master who screamed and threw stuff at you the first few times you met. He said he wanted you to leave him alone, that you could even skip work but receive the paycheck anyway(his family wouldn’t notice if you neglected your duties) if you so wished. All he wanted was to be by his lonesome. He never had anyone in his youth and it would remain that way when he was an adult and until the day he died.

This young master was truly troublesome.

Yandere!Young Master that you decided to care for despite his bad temper and hurtful insults. He called you foul names, compared you to filth and made your job a lot harder than it needed to be. Even physical violence like pulling your hair and throwing(more) objects in your direction was not off the table. There was no one to aid you during the especially difficult days since the already-limited staff the house had avoided both you and the young mater like the plague. Staying clear of him was understandable, he had tormented them as well, and they refused to interact with you in fear of you requesting back-up. When they saw a way out they took it, it was as simple as that.

Still, you felt sad for the young master. He had not had the easiest life and was shunned by everyone around him. It really did seem that money could not truly buy everything one needed; the deprivation of support had created his sour personality. While it seemed nice, you didn’t feel like it was right to leech of money you didn’t earn. You wanted to help the broken young man, maybe he would be able to live a somewhat earnest life.

You weren’t sure if you did it because you had somehow come to care for the ill-mannered man, or if it was to satisfy your own need to feel like a good person. Whatever it was, it drove you to try harder than ever to win the young master’s trust.

Yandere!Young Master who was stumped. He did not understand why you treated him so kindly after all the abuse he put you through(yes, he knew he acted horrible but didn’t find it in himself to care). It didn’t make any sense. Why were you approaching him and asking him personal questions while the rest of the staff avoided his room like a bomb had been planted inside? Whenever you’d ask about his hobbies and tastes he’d simply respond with a snarky, “Why the hell do you care?” But no matter how rude he was to you, you never buzzed off like he’d so desperately wanted in the beginning.

Yandere!Young Master who didn’t want you to leave anymore. Truth be told, you made his days feel a lot more worthy than they should’ve been. You're like a breath of fresh air. No servant he's ever had was in your likeness. It seemed like you genuinely cared for him, which is in big contrast to the others.

Yandere!Young Master who began to treat you more kindly. It was subtle in the beginning; he didn't insult you as much, until it stopped all together; he no longer tried to hurt you during his tantrums; the young master eventually started to compliment you at times wether it be your clothes or how you did your hair that day.

Yandere!Young Master who now regarded you as irreplaceable. You had bursted into his monotone life and brought light with you. He could actually smile for once. With you near he didn't feel like he was constantly rotting and had been encouraged enough to wander outside- something he hadn't even though about doing prior to your encounter. You helped him of course and provided safety and stability. He adored getting to cling to you with every finer of his being. Thanks to you he regained his appetite and was growing stronger every day. The young master wouldn't admit it to anyone but his favourite time of day was now mealtime, it was because you would feed him yourself. He would often stare into your eyes without breaking eye-contact whilst you fed him. There was just something so sensual about it. Just the though had him shiver in delight.

Yandere!Young Master who went absolutely ballistic as he suspected you might have a lover. He had overheard you speak to the only male servant right outside his door when you thought he was asleep. He made you laugh- HIM, the good-for-nothing servant boy who never did his job right! What did you see in him? Well, you saw enough to want a date with him. The young master could not stand for it. His blood boiled, how could you seduce him and become the most important person in his life if you were just going to whore yourself out for mere peasants? Did you think you could simply leave him like nothing had happened? Fuck that made him furious.

Yandere!Young Master who reverted back to his old personality, without you understanding why. Now he was mean and ill-mannered again. Every ounce of respect you had earned through hard work and long months had flown out the window in an instant.

Though it stung to see your hopeless expression when he swore at you, he knew it needed to be done. You had to be taught that you couldn't mess with someone's life and abandon them easily. You belonged to him now and he will keep you even if that's not what you desire.

[cheriecoke]

nanami kento, who hates dating, and didn’t do much of it in his early twenties. but now, he’s almost thirty, watching all the people he works with settle down, have kids, and he thinks he wants that. so he might as well try.

so satoru sets him up on a few dates — friends of friends, he calls them. and at the end of every one of the dinners, kento goes home empty, exhausted, because he knows what they want is not the same.

still; he thinks maybe he’s being a little self-destructive, maybe too picky, maybe he just got so used to being alone. with satoru’s insistence, he gives all the women another call, invites them over to his apartment.

the first time was a disaster… kento had barely set the dinner on the table before his cat had hissed at her, scratched her down the arm in a thin gash. and though it did draw blood, it was hardly enough to warrant that reaction.

he didn’t even try to stop her as she picked up her bag and left, huffing like she’d been morally offend. kento, though, could only smile to himself in amusement.

because maybe kento was a poor judge of character, a man who was secretly hoping nothing would pan out — but his cat could certainly tell the good from the bad.

it became a little game to him, after that. seeing if anyone could win his pet over, and if they could, perhaps they were the one. his darling animal was a fickle thing anyway. a bit too defensive, quick to bite anything threatening after years on the streets.

naturally, no one came back twice.

he was close to giving up, accepting his solitude because he was tired of empty conversations over dinner. but then, he ventured out over the weekend to a new coffee shop, during hours he normally didn’t spend out of his home, and met you.

though you only talked for a moment, kento felt like maybe he’d known you in a past life. a part of him thought maybe it was strange, the way he kept coming back to talk to you, catching you at the end of your shift to see if you wanted to grab a coffee sometime.

by the second date, kento started to think you could turn out to be his best friend.

by the third date, kento wondered if soulmates were real.

on the fourth date, almost two months later, an appropriate time to get to know someone when you were as reserved as kento, he invited you over for dinner. it was, perhaps, the final confirmation he needed to let himself be with you.

he let you through the door, smiling softly as you told him about the book you were reading, and hung his coat on the rack. a moment later, you stopped, distracted, hands covering your mouth in a gasp.

“kento! she’s the cutest cat i’ve ever seen, you didn’t even show me pictures!” you exclaim, and, a few feet away, crouched down. “look at her pretty eyes…”

“careful,” kento said, “she’s not very—“

but the cat approached your outstretched hand, sniffed once, before letting you scratch her under her chin, purring loud enough for kento to hear across the room.

“shes such a sweetheart, you told me she was mean!” you smiled, making a cooing noise as you threaded your fingers through her fur. “kento’s a liar, isn’t he… you’re so precious.”

a few moments later, she snapped her jaw at you in a biting motion, and you only laughed, withdrawing your hand. “alright, i get it, i won’t bother you anymore.”

though she still brushed against your legs, just as she did kento’s, and seemed to communicate some sort of message to him.

“do you want any help cooking?” you ask, tucking your hair behind your ears. “i’m a disaster in the kitchen, but—“

“sure,” kento said, his chest tightening as he blinked back at you, only in his apartment for minutes and already looking as at home there. he wondered if it was possible to fall in love so quickly. “but only if you want to.”